Harry Potter and the Goblincraft Sword
by Voidwalking
Summary: AU.  When the past is changed, Harry is raised by two men significantly more qualified than the Dursleys to handle children.  Unfortunately, no amount of messing about with the past is sufficient to remove Voldemort. Not a romance, but has implied slash.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I in no way own any part of Harry Potter. I am making no profit off of this.

The spirit is not pleased.

The fact that all things eventually fade is a defining characteristic of the afterlife. Although space and time suddenly become infinite for the newly dead, and in some cases malleable, there is no corresponding increase in human cognition or memory capacity to match.

Human? Was that what he had been once? The memory flickers briefly, tantalizingly just out of reach, before slipping away.

Just like for the living, old memories will eventually fade. Spirits who remain long enough eventually forget every part of their life and became true natives of the heavens. They still possess the same basic personality characteristics – their experiences have directed their mental schema of the world to grow and work in certain ways, and that can not be changed except by new experiences. Instead, it functions more as a mellowing. The extreme beliefs and personality traits caused by the harsh nature of life slowly fade away, until the spirit has come full circle and is ready to re-enter the world. It is not a totally new start – that would be pointless – but it is good enough.

The spirit descends through meaningless space, trying to recall what it was trying to recall. This is a difficult task, for the memories in question are ancient, even predating the spirit's corporeal death, but the being is well-practiced at such things by now. Finally, the spirit is rewarded with a flicker of memory, so old as to seem primeval. It finally realizes its purpose, conceived long ago, forgotten all these eons.

The spirit has mastered the skills of time travel, of course, and of viewing the world as if through a pane of glass. With a bit more effort, it is even capable of slightly altering events. That is a trick it has never passed on to anyone; frankly, the spirit isn't certain it is supposed to possess such an ability. It learned quickly enough that it cannot change anything about its own past life, or the life of anyone close to it. Even certain events in the lives of complete strangers couldn't be touched. But there is a promise it had made, a long time ago, and it will keep that promise.

Now its target is coming into view . . . the child. Slowly, the spirit casts its view in ever-widening circles, until it finally lands upon the event in question.

Two men face each other on a crowded street. Once friends, they were now hated enemies. This is the collision that would send one of them to a terrible place, and send the other man into hiding in plain sight for decades.

The spirit ripples, disconcerted. This event is much too late; it cannot hope to bring about the change it wanted here. It has to start earlier.

As it falls back through time, it works on both men, influencing events to make the one softer, to turn him from the dark nature that would otherwise consume him, and to bring the other more understanding, and the ability to help his companion when necessary. As it works, the events in the future slowly change to fit the new past. Five years back, and the clash results in a destroyed friendship. Ten years back, and the clash never happens at all. Twenty five years back, and the men remain close for the rest of their lives.

The spirit is fading quickly by this point; it has put too much of itself into its endeavor. Briefly, it wonders if it will get to move on when it was done, or if it will just fade into nothing, completely spent. The memory of the child brings it back to task again. It shakes off the irrelevant thoughts and continues on.

The child is still an orphan; nothing could have changed that. But this time, events will follow a different path. In a burst of effort, the ghost visits the men in the time of the child, altering events to place a singular idea in their heads.

Its work is almost done. Burning its very essence, it visits another child, this one not quite an orphan, but with a caregiver wizened with age. The spirit whispers one last idea into the old human's mind before it collapses into itself.

Utterly finished, the being falls back into its own time. Never before has a mortal spirit made such a comprehensive change to the fabric of creation. The spirit knows that by the time it recovers its lost energy – if it recovers at all – it will have lost all memory of this place for good. It bids the child a silent farewell, with hope that its life will be better in the future.

Far away, a man who once made a mistake . . . chooses more wisely.

"No," he breathes, holding the child before the ruins of a house. "You will certainly _not_ end up with the Dursleys. Voldemort is gone, though not destroyed, and you would not be safe in your uncle's household anyway. It is safest if I care for you myself, I should think." The man turns when his companion snorts. "Do you have an objection, Gellert?" he asks mildly.

"Hardly," answers Gellert Grindelwald, the well-known civil rights activist and private Auror trainer. "I simply found it hard to believe that you honestly considered any other alternative, Albus."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Yup, Harry and Neville are raised together by Dumbledore and a reformed Gellert Grindelwald. This was trickier than I had expected it to be. I'm writing this story in present tense, but a significant number of phrases here refer to past events and so needed to be in past tense. There were several cases where I just wasn't sure which tense to use, so when I doubt I used the present. I also tried to lead the reader to believe that it would be Sirius and Peter raising Harry before I revealed the truth at the end; I'm not sure how effective that was. This story does have implied Grindeldore. Their relationship may eventually be stated outright, but there will be no old man smut. Sorry, old dudes! I am just not interested in writing that. As a final note, if you want some idea of where I am likely to go with this, you can check out an explanation of my thoughts on several HP topics on my author page. There are no spoilers there.


	2. Welcome to Hogwarts

Disclaimer: I in no way own any part of Harry Potter. I am making no profit off of this.

ELEVEN YEARS LATER

"Give over, Neville," Harry Potter huffs at his adopted brother. "Grandad Albus said we have to ride the train because everyone has to ride the train. There's to be no special treatment just because we're family."

"You give over," Neville grumbles, but there is no bite in his tone. He idly shifts his trunk handle from one hand to the other. "It's not about giving special treatment because we're family. It's about not forcing us to perform tasks again, because we have already done those things. It's silly for us to portkey from Hogwarts to King's Cross Station so that we can take a train to Hogwarts. We have already traveled to Hogwarts."

Harry snorts with suppressed laughter. "Did Grandad Gellert say that?"

"No, why?"

"You sound just like him."

"Come off it."

"Merlin's truth, I swear," Harry intones mockingly, crossing one hand over his heart and holding the other upright.

Neville throws a Chocolate Frog at him. Harry snatches it out of the air and takes an huge bite.

"Tasty," he grins at Neville in triumph, purposely showing off his chocolate-covered teeth. Neville mock-gags to hide his laughter and gives his brother a shove.

Harry is too distracted to shove his brother back. "Hey," he calls out as he snatches the Chocolate Frog Card just before it hits the ground. "It's Grandad Gellert."

"No way!" Neville is at his side in seconds. "Grandads _always_ grab these before we can see them!" he exclaims, using their family term for referring to both grandfathers together.

The card's picture shows a younger Gellert Grindelwald striding ominously out of a badly damaged building. _The Defence expert Gellert Grindelwald is perhaps best known for his work in the field of civil rights. He was instrumental in the passing of the Muggle-Born Protection Act of 1978. He is pictured here after driving off You-Know-Who at the battle of Godric's Hollow. He currently gives private lessons to Auror trainees and is often a guest lecturer at Hogwarts. Mr. Grindelwald enjoys logic puzzles and thunderstorms._

"How'd they find out that Grandad fought Voldemort?" Harry wonders out loud before Neville can shush him. The bustling platform falls instantly silent as everyone in hearing range turns to stare at whoever spoke the forbidden name. Harry, for his part, stares right back in a sort of frozen embarrassment at what he had done.

Neville suppresses a grin at how much his brother currently resembles a post owl. "You know you're not supposed to say that name," he mutters at Harry.

"Fear of a name only increases -"

"- fear of the thing itself, yes, I've met Grandad Albus too you know," Neville whispers wryly. "But you know Grandad Gellert said not to draw attention to ourselves."

"Fine! I'll just flounce off to kiss You-Know-Who's dainty feet, then," Harry huffs, but his words lack a sting.

Neville rolls his eyes at his brother but otherwise lets the matter go.

It is a fortuitous silence. In a matter of moments, the Hogwarts Express arrives and the platform descends into a chaotic mess of hurled luggage and tearful farewells. The situation isn't quite as bad as it will be when the train leaves in a couple of hours – one of the advantages of being related to the Headmaster of Hogwarts is that you always know when the Express will arrive at King's Cross Station.

The two boys struggle through the crowds, deposit their luggage, and quickly claim a compartment on the train. They still have over an hour before departure, so to pass the time Neville reads a book he had grabbed from Gellert's study just before leaving that morning. Harry pulls out his newly-acquired wand and studies it closely, idly turning it over and over in his hands.

"Mess about with that too much and you'll break it," Neville comments offhand without looking up from his book.

Harry gives him a sharp look but decides he isn't in the mood to fight with his brother. "It's just so different," he comments, sliding his wand back into his robes. "I always thought my father's wand worked just fine for me, but this one is so much better. How do they both work when they're so different from each other?" he asks as his fingers absentmindedly caress the end of his wand.

Neville frowns in thought. "It was like that for me too," he muses. "It always felt like my dad's wand wanted to work for me, but we only," he struggles for words, "we only fit so well together. My own wand fits perfectly, like it's made just for me."

Harry nods. "Hey," he asks suddenly, "are you still going to visit your grandmother on the weekends while we're in school?"

Neville shakes his head in relief. "No, though I'll have to spend more time with her over the summers to make up for it. She's not really all that bad, once you get used to her. Are you going to the Dursleys at all?"

Harry grins. "Never again. Grandad Albus said that I'm old enough now to decide what sort of people I want to be around. They are definitely not on the list. Remus will still stop by during the holidays, though."

Their conversation is interrupted as a red-headed boy enters the compartment, muttering imprecations against twins under his breath.

"Ron Weasley," he says without preamble as he sits down, holding his hand out for the brothers to shake.

Harry studies the other boy's face critically for a moment before giving a tiny nod to Neville. Harry had gained a certain measure of Albus' ability to read people through body language and general presence. Though Harry was no Legilimens, Neville had learned to trust his brother's opinions of people.

Harry and Ron are soon discussing Quidditch like they have been best mates all their lives. Neville rolls his eyes at the pair of them and returns to his book. He only has time to read a couple of lines before the door slams open and a sobbing, bushy-haired girl rushes in. Taking no notice of the others, she immediately tries to hide in a corner seat, pulling her legs up to make herself as compact as possible.

The apparent source of her distress imperiously strides into the compartment. Harry immediately gives a discreet shake of his head to Neville; the blonde boy is not to be trusted. Behind the interloper are two larger boys, each with the slightly confused expressions of the very stupid.

"Hiding, mudblood?" the strange boy taunts as he glanced around the compartment, and Harry sees the strange girl stiffen in fear at the sound of the boy's voice. "Ah," the blond said, spotting Ron, "a Weasley. Figures you'd come here, to hide among the blood traitors."

Ron leaps to his feet, face as red as his hair. "You watch your mouth!" he yells. "You're what, a Malfoy? Too bad that You-Know-Who isn't around to protect you."

Neville's lips are drawn into a thin white line. The name of Malfoy says a great deal to him, none of it good, and this Weasley kid is clearly not terribly bright. Next to him, Harry is fingering the end of his wand again. Neville discreetly elbows him. "Grandad said no magic," he murmurs, but Harry gives no sign he has heard.

"Poor _and _stupid, how terribly sad for you," the boy says easily, but his eyes are murderous. "My name is indeed Draco Malfoy, not that you've any right to speak it. Is this mudblood your girlfriend, Weasley? Are you two rutting like-"

Harry casually raises his hand. Neville slaps it down. Harry shoots him a look and jerks his other hand up in a sharp motion before Neville can stop him.

Draco keeps talking, but no words come out. Harry and Neville glare at each other for a moment until Draco abruptly turns on his heel and strides out of the compartment, face red with fury. His two bodyguards stare at each other in a total lack of comprehension for several seconds before realizing they should follow.

"What happened?" Ron asks, looking at the two boys blankly. "That looked like a charm my dad uses sometimes when my brothers are getting on his nerves, but that's a sixth-year spell at least," he slowly says, his tone alternating between admiration and suspicion.

"Fifth year, actually," interjects the girl, who has stopped crying and is now watching the brothers with an avid expression of interest. "And it's not so hard as it might seem from that. They just delay teaching it because the faculty doesn't want third-years running around with the ability to silence them, so they don't teach it until right before the OWLs."

The three boys look at her in surprise. "How did you know that?" asks Harry. He sees Neville shrug out of the corner of his eye; neither of them expected a muggle-born to know about one of the more secret policies of Hogwarts.

"I read it in Hogwarts: A History," she says carelessly, as if it should have been obvious. "It's a fascinating book, really."

Neville whistles. "You actually managed to finish that? I couldn't get past the third chapter."

"Well, it was a bit dry," she admits as she fishes the book out of a bag that has long since been beaten into shapelessness. "But the notes in the margins were exceptionally helpful."

"What – that's the teacher's edition!" Neville splutters as her copy comes into view. "How did you even get that?"

She looks at it in surprise. "Is it? I told the man at the bookstore I wanted a copy of every book that had to do with Hogwarts, I suppose he simply made a mistake."

"Some mistake," says Harry in surprise. "Don't let on that you have that, they likely won't be pleased."

"I . . ." the girl looks at the book again, obviously torn. "Well, if it's against the rules, I suppose I really shouldn't have it, but . . ."

Neville sighs and takes pity on her. "It's not a written rule. The teachers just don't like it when the students know their secrets, is all."

The girl calms down a bit at that, before sticking her hand out in a businesslike fashion. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way," she added.

Hermione fits into the conversation awkwardly at first, and it is obvious she would rather be reading. Ron, however, proves to be extremely proficient at talking, and she soon finds herself drawn in against her will.

The rest of the trip flies by, and it seems like it is only a few minutes until they find themselves waiting at Hogsmeade Station. They nod to Hagrid, who nods back and sends them straight on to the boats for first years. Harry silently gives thanks that his grandfather had asked the staff not to immediately be familiar with the boys.

"How do you two know the staff here?" Hermione demands of Harry as they walk to the boats.

"Uh," he flounders, caught off guard, "well, they are . . ."

"- very famous in the wizarding world," Neville steps in to save his brother. "You'd know them too if you had grown up here." He flinches as he realized what he just said. "And by here, I mean as a wizard, rather than with muggles. How was that, by the way? You must have been so confused the first time you did accidental magic . . ."

Harry lets Neville take Hermione off to a different boat, grateful for the save. As they cross the lake, he can just barely hear his brother's voice from time to time as he tells his companions all about Hogwarts.

" - and there's a giant squid in the lake, but don't be afraid of it," Neville says urbanely. "It's actually the animagus form of Professor Severus Snape."

Harry has to bite his cheeks to contain his wild laughter as they all leave for the Sorting Feast.

Four hours later, a flabbergasted Harry Potter sits his trunk down in front of his bed. Next to him, Neville groans with relief as he collapses onto his own bed face first.

"So," Neville says into his pillow. "Ravenclaw."

Harry sits down on his blue and bronze bedsheets. "Yeah."

"Somehow, I didn't see that coming."

Harry buries his face into his own pillow. "Me either. At least that Granger girl is here as well."

"Grandad Gellert will be happy."

"Grandads would be happy with anything that wasn't Slytherin."

"True. I feel kind of bad for Ron though, I think we were the only ones he talked to on the way here."

"Ron said he has three brothers in Gryffindor. He'll be fine." Harry intends to say more than that, but he is suddenly too tired to recall what he had meant to say. Sleep comes quickly and mercifully.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I feel the need to assure you guys that this is not a Super!Harry or Neville story. Two boys raised by Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald are going to be extraordinarily competent, particularly when they are the primary targets of Voldemort. Regardless, while they are very intelligent (for a given definition of intelligence), they are not perfect wizards who could apparate by the age of five. They have worked very hard to get where they are now. For the record, they can't apparate, cast a patronus, shift into an animagus form, or generally use any spell above third or fourth year (_Silencio_ and _Protego _are the two exceptions to this. We will cover them later).


	3. First Day of Classes

Disclaimer: I in no way own any part of Harry Potter. I am making no profit off of this.

"Remember," Neville mutters in Harry's ear on the way to their first class, "no showing off."

Harry rolls his eyes. "I know, I know. Grandad Gellert gave me the whole speech too. No one except the faculty knows who we are, and Grandads want it to stay that way."

Despite his grandfather's assurances that he was more than prepared for first-year classes, the butterflies in Neville's stomach do not completely disappear until he has passed every class that day with flying colors. Despite his admonition to Harry not to show off, they both turn their matchsticks into needles on the first try, and spend the rest of the period discreetly trying to perform the spell silently.

Harry turns in surprise when Hermione taps on his shoulder from the desk behind him.

"How did you do that?" she whispers fiercely. Harry unconsciously gulps in nervousness; he distrusts the obdurate gleam in her eye.

"I was just lucky, I guess," he responds quickly, keeping an eye on McGonagall.

Hermione folds her arms and glares at him as though he has committed some reprehensible offense. "Don't lie! You both did it on the first try, and you've both been trying to do it silently since then. I've completely learned all the first year textbooks, you couldn't have been any more prepared than I was. So, how did you do it?"

"Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger," McGonagall's voice cracks through the room, "my classroom is not a place for schoolyard chatter. As this is your first day, I will forgive this infraction, but any more will result in detention or a loss of points. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry and Hermione say quietly.

"Glad to hear it. Return to your work."

The interruption doesn't prevent Hermione from cornering the boys in a dank hallway immediately after class. Neville suppresses a groan as he spots her laying in wait behind a suit of armor. This is the absolute last thing he needs, but it's already too late to escape her haranguing.

"Out with it, you two," she demands, stepping in front of the two of them so quickly they only barely avoid a collision. "What did you do in class?"

"Transfiguration," Harry responds cheekily.

Hermione rolls her eyes at him in obvious disgust and turns to Neville. "Well?" she demands rudely.

Neville sighs. "My grandmother told me," he admits resignedly, "that Professor McGonagall has given the same assignment on the first day every day for thirty years now." His tone is lachrymose yet credibly proud.

Harry glances sharply at his brother, but keeps quiet.

"She said I needed to make a strong first impression on the Professor," Neville continues, "so she had me practice and practice that transfiguration over the summer until I could do it perfectly. Last night, I taught it to Harry and he practiced it too."

Hermione isn't listening. "Of course!" she exclaims into thin air, her enigma suddenly resolved. "Of course students who grew up with wizards would know what spells were likely to be on the curriculum. I completely forgot about that." She glances at the two boys as if she had forgotten their presence. "Thank you," she murmurs before hurrying off towards the library with a worried expression. Her absolution of the boys is bemusingly quick yet convincingly genuine.

Harry looks at Neville admiringly. "Are you sure you aren't really in Slytherin?"

Neville rolls his eyes. "You're a git," he informs Harry as they walk towards the Ravenclaw common room.

"No, really," Harry continues, "that was great! I'll tell Grandad Albus to get you a snake familiar for Christmas."

Neville looks at the other boy in horror. "You will do no such thing!"

"Maybe a resorting too."

Harry adeptly avoids the quill Neville hurls at him by dodging into an empty classroom. He favors his brother with an impudent grin, prepared to offer another unwanted suggestion.

Neville, however, is staring strangely at a sheet of parchment.

"What's that, then?" Harry asks curiously.

"I found it in my bag when I was looking for something to throw," Neville answers absently.

"Well, what is it?"

In response, Neville hands the parchment over. "It's from the Epistle charm, I think."

The firm, yet loopy handwriting on the note is immediately familiar to Harry. _Boys_, _meet me in the secret place after your last class. You know the one_. The letter is signed with a large, ornate A.

"I wonder what he wants," Harry murmurs thoughtfully as he absently folds up the parchment and stows it in his own bag.

"Let's go then, we're late already," Neville sighs. The two boys trudge back across the castle to the Headmaster's office, easily navigating the labyrinthine passages. After a quick glance to be certain they were alone, Neville leans in close to the guardian statue and whispers, "_Familias_."

The gargoyle scrapes aside as the staircase rumbles into a new configuration; one that leads down instead of up. The boys follow it down to a hidden room below the Headmaster's office. Mysterious bottles and leather-bound books line the stone walls of the small, warmly-lit room. In the center sits a solid oak desk in front of a large brown chair.

"Ah, there you are," says Albus Dumbledore easily from his position in the chair. "I was beginning to wonder if I had forgotten how to perform that charm in my old age." The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot does not sound very worried.

"I just found it a few minutes ago," Neville admits as both boys hug their adoptive grandfather.

"Aha! That would indeed explain it," Albus says agreeably, returning the hug warmly. "I hope your first day as students was illuminating."

Harry shrugs. "I suppose," he says, plopping carelessly onto a small stool next to Neville.

"And what, if anything, did you learn?" Albus inquires as he leans back in his chair.

Neville shifts uncomfortably on the hard wooden stool. "Well, it was just all so basic," he begins lamely. "I wasn't expecting it to be like that."

Harry nods emphatically. "Me either. I did manage to turn my matchstick into a pin silently, though," he admits with a small grin.

Neville punches the other boy's shoulder, almost knocking him off his stool. "You wanker! You didn't tell me that."

"Well, it wasn't very good," Harry backpedals, "and it was only the one time."

"Very good, very good," Albus congratulates them. "As your grandfather and I have said, you are both substantially more advanced than your first-year classmates. You could likely have immediately begun as fourth years with no major troubles. You are significantly more advanced even than that in fields that do not rely upon raw magical power, such as Potions. Are you perhaps," he says as he looks at Neville mischievously, "more inclined to believe us now?"

Neville looks down and toes the floor, turning a little red. "I didn't _not_ believe you," he protests.

Albus laughs quietly. "Of course not, of course not. Sometimes, it is simply better for us to see things with our own eyes. Now, doubtless, you are wondering why I asked you both to come here."

"We were mildly curious," Harry admits casually.

Albus suppresses a smile. "Only mildly? I suppose it can wait, then," he says lightly, and picks up a book with the air of a man who intends to study for some time.

"Grandad, no!" Harry stops just sort of whinging, squirming in his seat like a five year old. Neville openly smirks at his brother's lack of restraint, but is clearly just as excited himself.

Albus chuckles again. "Well, since you two are so interested, I suppose I have little choice but to tell you." He pauses a moment, letting the boys squirm in anticipation. "Your grandfather and I have arranged a tutor for you."

The information takes a moment to register. "A tutor?" Neville bursts out. "But why? You and grandad are both more competent in every field than any normal wizard."

"While it would be arrogant of me to say that much," Albus says thoughtfully, "I believe I can indeed lay claim to some small capacity for instruction, as can your other grandfather. However, I must call your attention to the latter half of your statement: the man you are going to study under is no _normal _wizard. We would not send you to him if his ability in this field did not surpass our own. He is, in fact, the greatest alchemist the world has ever seen."

Neville stares at his grandfather in disbelief. "We're going to study under Nicholas Flamel."

"You are going to study under Nicholas Flamel," Albus agrees pleasantly.

Harry whoops in delight. "Seriously? When? Is he coming here? What are we going to study first?"

Albus smiles benevolently. "Yes, beginning next week, no, and that is up to him."

Harry blinks in confusion, trying to put the proper answers with the proper question.

"So we're going to him, then," Neville murmurs.

"Quite right."

Harry, however, catches on to something his brother missed in their grandfather's expression. "It's starting again, isn't it?" he asks quietly. "The war, I mean."

Albus leans back in his chair; his face seems more lined than before. "It is early to say that yet," he disagrees. "But Voldemort has been active again, it is true. He made an attempt at gaining access to something secret – do not ask me of it – but he failed. Currently we are waiting for his next move."

Harry stares hard at the floor. "This is the first time he's been active since . . ."

"Since the night your parents were attacked," Albus finishes gently, "and your grandfather Gellert forced him to retreat, yes. While his physical injuries were numerous, the mightiest blow was to his pride. He had fancied himself undefeatable before then, though he was never incautious. While his agents have occasionally bestirred themselves," here he looks at Neville sorrowfully, "Voldemort himself has remained out of sight until recently."

Neville watches his brother closely. Casually, he drapes a comforting arm over Harry's shoulders, half expecting the other boy to angrily shrug him away.

Harry, however, only nods to their grandfather. "That's why you're sending us to Flamel, then."

"Yes," Albus admits quietly. "Your grandfather and I would lay down our lives to protect either of you, but we are not perfect beings. We cannot be present at all times or foresee all threats. It is best that you have your own ability to defend yourselves in that case."

Neville tightens his grip on Harry as the other boy nods and swipes at his eyes. "Alright," he mumbles. "When exactly do we begin?"

"I will let you know when Professor Flamel will begin your sessions," Albus says, with no trace of his previous worry. "I am certain he will be pleased with your accomplishments thus far. Now I fear I must take my leave," he continues as he hugged his adopted grandsons. "I have an appointment with Professor Snape, and he can be most unpleasant if kept waiting."

The thought of Snape makes Neville giggle for a moment. "Grandad, when we were in the boats coming here, I told the first years that the giant squid was Professor Snape's animagus form."

"Ah, so that was you?" Albus is mildly surprised. "I had imagined it had to be Harry. Be certain Professor Snape does not discover this; I am told he was most displeased last night when his first years asked him what it was like to have tentacles."

Harry laughs at that before bidding their grandfather farewell and heading up to dinner.

Neville stays a moment longer. "I think this is really going to bother Harry," he confesses to Albus.

Albus nods in response. "You boys have always had a common bond in the loss of your parents to Voldemort – recall that it is what originally brought you together - but your parents, Neville, are at least still alive . . . if unable to recognize you. You also have your grandmother, though she can be a 'pain in the bum', I believe is the phrase you use?" Albus states mildly with a smile, watching Neville stutter and flush red. "Harry has no blood relations left except for the Dursleys, who, though I hesitate to say it, do not seem very interested in him."

Neville looks away and nods. "They aren't. He never talks about it, but sometimes that still eats at him."

"Quite. Our little adoptive family is every bit as close as a blood family could be . . . but that never completely takes away the pain or the questions," Albus sighs as he sits back down.

Neville looks at him askance. "You sound like you speak from experience." It is a question, and yet not.

Albus smiles faintly at him. "You have been learning from Gellert, I see," he says fondly.

Neville freezes. "Well . . . I . . ."

Albus laughs, a rare full-throated guffaw. "Do not be embarrassed! There are far worse fates in life than taking after Gellert Grindelwald."

Meanwhile, two Slytherins have a conference in a dark, cold office, suffused with the acrid scent of potions ingredients.

"Why did you ask for this meeting, Draco?" Snape asks quietly. His office is fully warded, of course, but there is no excuse for carelessness.

"I know who hexed me," Draco says brashly. "It was Potter."

Snape looks at his student curiously. "Why do you say this?"

"I've thought about it constantly," Draco says, his words clipped and angry. "The Mudblood was a crying mess. She couldn't have hexed me if I'd let her. I was looking right at Weasley, so I know he didn't do it. Potter made some motion just before I lost my voice. The other one, Longbottom, hit him, and they glared at each other for a minute afterwards."

Snape watches the boy closely. "Someone could have struck you from behind."

"Crabbe and Goyle were right behind me, and they're both bigger than I am, so nobody could have gotten a shot in from there," Draco disagrees smoothly. "No, it had to be Potter. When I get my hands on him . . ."

"You will do absolutely nothing," Snape instructs in a hard voice. Draco lurches back in surprise, unused to having that tone of voice directed at him. "You may continue your feud with Weasley, but you are to leave the Potter boy to me, is that understood?"

Draco shoots to his feet. "I can't do that!" he bursts. "He hexed a Malfoy, so a Malfoy has to get revenge!"

"Do not pontificate to me, Mr. Malfoy," Snape demands, staring down his nose at the boy. "You forget I am a professor at this institution, and son of my friend or not, you will show me proper respect!"

Malfoy sits down instantly as years of Malfoy breeding asserts itself. "I apologize, sir," he states calmly and evenly. "It will not happen again."

"I should hope not," Snape says acidly as he seats himself again. "I will tell you something, Draco," he says intently, "but you are not to speak of it to anyone. You may tell your father, but only him. Not Crabbe or Goyle, not Ms. Parkinson, and not Mr. Nott, nor any other adult, including your mother. Do you understand?"

Wide-eyed now, Draco nodded.

"Harry Potter is a arrogant braggart, but for the moment at least, he is untouchable. He is Albus Dumbledore's adopted grandson, as is Longbottom. They are also quite close to Gellert Grindelwald."

Draco pales. "So that's where they went after – the event," he mutters. "Father had always wondered."

"Yes," Snape hisses. "I had expected them to be of above-average capability, but Silencing Charms as first years are rather more than I had anticipated. I must report this quickly," he broods as his gaze slides off Draco to the dark corners of the room. "You have done well, Draco. We will continue our public cover story. Show me your training and tell me why."

Draco tilts his head in thought as he reasons through his head of house's actions. "Well, if anything happens to Potter, even if I don't do it, the Headmaster will get involved, and he would likely find out I was behind it."

"Go on."

"It would be difficult to hide Potter's relationship with the Headmaster from the faculty, so presumably they know. If a large number of . . . supporters suddenly also know, it will be obvious who has leaked the information." Draco watches Snape carefully, but Snape's face gives nothing away.

"Continue."

Draco stares up at Snape openmouthed as a realization hits him. "You've known about this for some time, yet you haven't told my father. You don't want my father to know! You're only allowing me to tell him because if I know something he doesn't on your orders and he finds out, he could create real problems for you."

"You are not here to speculate on my motives, Mr. Malfoy," Snape comments icily. "Confine your observations to what is relevant." He shows no other reaction to Draco's unusual episode of social acuity.

"Yes, sir. I retract my statement. If I went public and claimed that a first year had cast a Silencing Charm on me, I'd be the laughingstock of the school. Even knowing who he is, no one on the faculty would believe me. I am to leave him alone unless I see the perfect chance, in which case," Draco glances at Snape's impassive face and revises his sentence partway through, "I will inform you and take no other action."

Snape's customary sneer smooths out a degree. "Good," he says curtly. "Keep an eye on Potter and Longbottom. If they perform any more unusual magic, inform me immediately. Your efforts will not go unnoticed."

Draco's face lights up. "Will the Dark Lord be pleased?"

"Silence!" Snape thunders, grasping his desk so strongly that his knuckles turn white with effort. "Never ask such questions on Hogwarts grounds! Anything Albus Dumbledore knows, Gellert Grindelwald will soon know. And if you draw his attention, there is very little chance your father or I would be able to save you."

Draco assumes his trained Malfoy mask again. "I apologize, sir. It will not happen again."

"See to it that it does not," Snape mutters as he and Draco leave his office in the dark.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I am horrid at writing Slytherins.


	4. Meet Gellert

Disclaimer: I in no way own any part of Harry Potter. I am making no profit off this.

"Albus, I am going to kill that woman. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon."

Albus turns around to greet the tall man who strides into his office. The man is old but not feeble, with only a few grey strands in his hair saving it from being completely white. His beard and mustache are kept close-cropped, instead of growing in the long, flowing fashion preferred by most wizards of his apparent age. He is large to the point of filling up the doorway, and clearly no longer in his prime, but his bearing shows that little of his bulk is fat.

"And which woman would that be, Gellert?" Albus inquires pleasantly.

Gellert Grindelwald folds his arms and glares at the Headmaster. "Rita Skeeter, as you well know," he states, his English still carrying a faint German accent even after all these years in Britain.

"Ahh, yes, Ms. Skeeter," Albus says offhandedly as he turns the Headmaster's chair into a couch with a wave of his wand and makes himself comfortable. "She is still about, then?"

"If by about, you mean still trying for a scoop after three years, yes," Gellert spits as he sits on the couch next to Albus, but his tone is marginally less venomous than before. "If she had been as dedicated in school as she is when pursuing a scandal, she would quite possibly have surpassed Tom Riddle."

"What new style of reporting may I look forward to hearing about this time?"

Gellert snorts in disgust. "She transfigured her assistant into a book, can you believe it? Just left him lying about in my office, hoping no one would notice."

"And was this method efficacious?"

Gellert leans back and purses his lips. "The idea was solid, I suppose," he admits grudgingly, "but she's a ridiculously incompetent witch. I have never before seen a book with nostrils, and I have the largest collection of Dark books in Europe."

"Alas, Transfiguration was never Ms. Skeeter's strong suit," Albus agrees. "I recall one assignment in particular involved turning a quill into a banana. She was, at that time, attempting to spread a scandal about adultery in the school newspaper. I fear it was a complete fabrication, as the concerned parties were not even old enough to be married. Alas, she had been concentrating too hard on the wrong thing, and instead of a banana she turned the quill into -"

"Yes, Albus, I recall," Gellert hastily interrupts. "You've mentioned this incident before."

"Have I?" asks Albus, turning his gaze to the heavens. "Alas, the vagaries of age."

Gellert entirely fails to suppress his smirk. "I'm sure. You used to talk about how you couldn't wait until you were old and could get away with anything by blaming it on your age."

"I fear I have no recollection of such a conversation."

"Of course not."

"She is still trying to find evidence that our relationship is . . . inappropriate, then?" Albus asks amusedly.

Gellert nods, watching the other man sharply. "Have you told the boys?"

"About Ms. Skeeter?" Albus inquires, idly shutting a book and returning it to the shelf "No. They have enough to deal with right now, I believe."

"Probably a good decision," Gellert agrees. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The act somehow seems to diminish him; though still very strong, he is less powerful than decrepit. "I . . . still cannot find Riddle," he says quietly, with uncharacteristic hesitation. "I don't know where he's hiding himself at." He does a poor job masking his frustration. He does a superb job avoiding Albus' eyes.

"Tom has grown very adept at hiding," Albus agrees. Despite Gellert's best attempts, Albus catches the other wizard's gaze and holds it firmly. "You should be pleased."

The illusion of infirmity vanishes. "Why should I be pleased, Albus?" Gellert growls. "I cannot protect my family from the greatest threat currently active in the world. There is nothing pleasing about this situation."

"You are still alive, are you not? I believe your grandsons are most pleased with that."

Gellert glares at the other man. "What are you saying? I have defeated him before. I can certainly do so again, considering what is at stake."

"That is not what you said immediately after the duel," Albus says mildly.

Gellert looks away. The sudden silence is deafening. "I was . . . tired," he finally insists. "I have not grown thicker in the intervening years, Albus, I would not go in with any fewer advantages than I had last time."

"Yes, let us count those advantages you had," Albus says agreeably, and Gellert's eyes widen fractionally as he realizes he has stepped into one of the Headmaster's infamous traps. "First, Tom was forced to dismantle the wards protecting the Potters. Even with the Fidelius compromised, that would have been no mean feat, as I believe I cast those charms myself. Then, he had put up his own wards in their place to prevent interference. After that, he dueled not one, but two powerful wizards who were fighting in the defense of their only child. While he was never in danger of losing, all those events weakened him substantially. What did you do at that point?"

Gellert sighs and rubs his forehead. "By then, I had arrived on broomstick. I took advantage of a weakness in _Cave Inimicum _that I had only recently discovered and slipped through his defences. I quite literally fell on top of him with a _Lumos Maxima _before he was aware of my presence."

"So Tom was blinded through your entire fight with him," Albus comments.

Gellert shakes his head, a short sharp motion. "Not blinded. He used some sort of counter-charm at the last second." His voice is tinged with frustration and respect. "His vision was noticeably impaired, though."

"And what occurred next?"

"We dueled. I won," Gellert states flatly.

In a practiced move, Albus raises his eyebrows at the other wizard. "Indeed?"

Gellert sighs and buries his face in his hands. "Neither of us ever trusted Riddle," he murmurs, his voice muffled by his rough palms. "I purposely concealed the extent of my abilities during his stay at Hogwarts. He believed me to be of average power, perhaps slightly greater."

"So he was expecting you to be considerably less competent," Albus summarizes casually. His gaze, however, is razor sharp.

"Yes." Gellert's deep voice rumbles. "Also, he did not expect me to possess the Elder Wand. I believe that's a fairly full accounting of all my advantages."

"That sounds reasonable to me," Albus agrees. "Now, in your defence – do not think I missed that downtrodden look on your face – the duel was almost entirely one-sided in your favour, I believe, which is quite something when one's opponent is the most powerful Dark wizard in recorded history. It is to your credit as a strategist that you were able to line up so many favourable elements so quickly. Additionally, you have always been a mighty wizard, certainly on par with myself. Although we have grown older and Tom has grown stronger, if the two of you were to duel again, I could not say you would likely lose," he admits, watching the other man closely over the tops of his spectacles.

Gellert sighs, aware of the converse Albus has implied. "But neither could you say I would likely win," he finishes heavily.

"Precisely. If something were to happen to you, the boys would be devastated, as would I. You must not seek Tom out," Albus speaks clearly, dropping the illusion of the wizened old man and speaking from his position as leader of the Light. "We do not know what protections he has gained in the last decade. To fight him blindly would be foolhardy in the extreme. You can only protect your grandsons if you are alive to do so."

Gellert glares at him before slowly nodding. "You are correct," he admits heavily. Only the lines in Gellert's face betray how much his admission cost him. "I had thought the same thing, but it is not a conclusion I had wanted to reach, Albus."

"You would be the first to say that we should not shy away from the truth simply because we find it unpleasant," Albus mentions idly in the tone of one who is stating the obvious.

"I know, Albus. I know."

In the Great Hall, Neville nods at the other first year Ravenclaw boys. "What's their deal, then?" he asks Harry grumpily.

Harry unobtrusively glances over at the three other boys, sitting far from their housemates at the dinner table and whispering among themselves. Every once in awhile, one of them sneaks a glance over at Harry or Neville before quickly ducking his head into the group huddle again.

Harry shrugs easily. "Don't know."

Neville rolls his eyes, wise to his brother's act. "You must be able to tell something."

Harry glances down the table again before returning to his dinner. "They think you're a prat." His voice is barely audible over the din of hundreds of children at the dinner table.

"_You're_ a prat."

"Wanker."

"Git."

"Twit."

Neville scowls and kicks Harry under the table. "Seriously."

Harry huffs. "Seriously? They've got some sort of issue with us."

Neville gives their housemates a distrustful once-over. "They don't seem inclined to take it up with us."

"No, they don't." Harry looks up thoughtfully, now engrossed in the problem, causing Neville to hide a triumphant grin. "I think they're uncomfortable, actually. They've never been rude, but they keep their distance from us. If we're in the common room, they go up to our shared room. If we're up there, they go somewhere else."

"They don't know about us, do they?"

Harry shrugs. "I don't know. They're doing a good job keeping the secret if they are though."

Neville idly picks at his dinner. "I suppose if Hermione couldn't get it out of them, they must not know." He drops the fork entirely, the look on his face indicating he is lost in thought.

"Probably," Harry agrees, looking at an empty spot by his right elbow. "Where's she been lately, anyway?"

"I don't really know. Probably the library, knowing her."

"Oh, you must be joking," Harry says slowly, a grin slowly coming over his face. "Look at Malfoy."

"Can we try that subject change again? You didn't quite break my neck the first time."

"Shut up and look."

Neville cranes his neck to look at the Slytherin table. Dead in the center of the first-year group is a furious Draco Malfoy, his hair charmed three different colours.

"Serves him right," Neville says unconcernedly. "I wonder who did it?"

"The Weasleys, of course," Harry says immediately. "Look at the Gryffindor table."

Neville glances over. The three youngest Weasley boys are cheerfully waving at Draco like they are long-lost friends. The oldest one – Neville couldn't quite recall his name – is sitting as far as possible from the others, obviously pretending not to know them. His facade is ruined by the occasional disgusted look he sends down the table at his brothers.

"Well," Neville muses, "I'd heard that they were troublemakers, but I suppose anyone who picks on a Malfoy can't be all bad."

"They're good-natured," Harry agrees, reading the boys with the same ease Neville would read an Arithmancy textbook. "Pretty energetic though."

Neville's response is interrupted by a thunderous crack as Hermione drops an extraneously large and dusty pile of tomes on the table next to Harry, causing the table to buck violently and catapult every other object into the air.

"Hey," Harry snaps, rapidly snatching up his dinner plates as they are launched to the four winds, "what's your issue?"

Having failed to catch his own plates, Neville takes advantage of the confrontation to clandestinely clean his robes with a muttered _Scourgify_. "Really," he adds dryly, "maybe you should add a book on physics to that pile."

A frazzled Hermione distractedly glances over the damage she has caused to her frowning housemates. "Sorry," she mutters offhandedly as she pulls out a book from the stack and immediately buries her nose in it.

"The Standard Book of Spells?" Harry reads off the book's spine in confusion. "Hermione, you have this book already, I've seen you use it in Charms."

"I know," she answers dully without taking her attention from the tome. Her speech is slow, as if she had only just woken up and was still half-asleep. "I thought that maybe if I . . . read a different version of the text it might explain things differently and I might understand." She falls silent for so long that Harry begins to believe she had finished. "But it's useless," she mutters, almost under Harry's hearing as she flips a page. The motion is slow and laboured, as if she is moving through molasses. "This was the only book I knew would have the spell; it's an older version of our textbook. But all the text is the same . . ."

Harry flinches in surprise as a small piece of parchment pops into existence several inches above Hermione's book and slowly floats down to rest on the open page. Bemused, the girl snatches it up before Harry can get a look at it. She reads it swiftly, then looks to the high table in confusion. Harry follows her gaze to see a worried Professor Flitwick looking directly at her. Harry glances over at Neville, who just shrugs at him before turning his attention back to his food.

Hermione hurriedly gathers her books up and leaves as soon as she is finished eating. Harry watches her yawn twice between the Ravenclaw table and the doors to the Great Hall. As soon as she is gone, he counts to twenty before sliding off the bench and punching Neville in the shoulder.

"Come on, let's go," he says with an eager grin.

Neville gives the entryway a sharp look before turning his wary gaze to his brother. "You're joking. That's none of our business."

"It is," Harry argues. He energetically bounces from foot to foot, tugging on his brother's robes. "She's our housemate, and if there's something going on, we should know about it."

"Why?" Neville inquires, barely noticing the attention they are receiving from their roommates. "She's having personal issues, which are not our business. Professor Flitwick wants to see her, which is also not our business. Which part of this sounds to you like it is our business?"

"We should go," Harry insists as if Neville had said nothing at all. "We could help her. It's the right thing to do." He sets off for the door, still holding on to Neville's clothing.

Neville jerks his robes out of Harry's hands. "And how, specifically, do you plan to help her?" When Harry doesn't respond, Neville goes on. "At best, you'll be seen as a good-natured idiot; at worst, as a spy. Either way, you're jumping into someone else's life uninvited. Also, you are way too excited."

Harry shrugs nonchalantly. "Stay here if you want then. I'm going." He starts off towards the door, leaving Neville behind.

Neville gapes at his brother for a moment before coming to his senses. "Oh for the love of – hold your horses, I'm coming," he grumbles, quickly catching up to the other boy. "What're you laughing at, then?" he demands, eying the other suspiciously.

Harry quickly schools his knowledgeable smirk into a neutral expression. "Me? Nothing."

Neville rolls his eyes. "Whatever, let's just go."

They trail Hermione through a confusing series of corridors, trying to stay back out of sight. This almost makes them lose track of her on a couple occasions, but Neville realizes Hermione is likely to be heading for Flitwick's office and drags his brother there. As the boys tiptoe up to the door, they can barely make out Flitwick's squeaky voice through the thick oak.

". . . most unusual request I have ever made, Ms. Granger, but don't you think you've been slightly excessive in your studies?" Flitwick asks. His voice, though muffled by the door, is kind and concerned.

"But I'm so far behind, Professor," Hermione moans. "Everyone else gets all the spells right on the first try and I just have to work at it for ages and ages. Other students are even practicing nonverbal casting, and that's not supposed to be on the curriculum until sixth year!"

Neville smirks at Harry, who rolls his eyes. "You did it too," he whispers fiercely.

"Yeah, but you did it first."

"Now that you mention it, I am rather more talented, aren't I?"

"Get off it," Neville mutters, leaning his head in closer to the door. "Belt up, they're still talking."

"_All_ the students cast spells on the first try, Ms. Granger?" Flitwick asks skeptically. "I can certainly tell you that's not true in my class. Your other teachers tell me you show an astounding ability for learning spells yourself, especially considering you had no previous knowledge of magic before receiving your letter."

Hermione's voice cuts through the door much more easily than Flitwick's had. "But that's just it, Professor," she wails, "everyone else knows the spells already! They've had years to learn them and I'm just now getting started! I've never been this far behind before!"

"Ms. Granger," Flitwick says thoughtfully, "are you familiar with the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery?"

"Isn't it the rule that prohibits students from using magic away from Hogwarts, Professor?" Hermione asks, immediately studious.

Harry blinks. "Wow," he whispers, pulling his head away from the door, "she goes from crazy to respectful faster than a . . ."

Neville suppresses a grin. "Faster than a what?"

"A . . . something fast."

"You are unspeakably dumb."

"Shut your face," Harry grumbles without bite as he put his ear back to the door. Neville, more interested in eavesdropping than starting a fight with his brother, complies.

"Correct, Ms. Granger," Flitwick compliments in his high voice. "It also applies to children under eleven, with the exception of accidental magic. This means, of course, that any sort of intentional underage magic is illegal. Even children fully raised in the Wizarding world do not typically practice with a wand before entering Hogwarts. Even if it were not illegal, few families would trust a ten year old with a wand."

"So," Hermione sounds puzzled, "there's no way they could have known the spells beforehand?"

_Busted_, Harry mouths to Neville, whose return shrug is thoroughly unrepentant.

"Wizarding families can be very unique," Flitwick allows, barely audible through the thick door, "so I won't speak in absolutes. However, it is highly irregular for first year students to already be practiced spellcasters. I can certainly tell you that almost none of your classmates are."

"But that's so much worse!" Hermione cries out. "That means nobody had an advantage at all and I'm still never any better than third!"

"Ah," says Flitwick with a triumphant note, "but you are also never less than third, correct?"

"Well, I suppose so," Hermione says, taken aback. "But that means I'm not doing as well as I could be."

"Why?" Flitwick demands. "Because you are not first?"

"Yes," Hermione answers, immediately in her element, "because I believe anyone has the ability to be first if they simply work hard enough."

"Hard work is an excellent virtue," Flitwick agrees, "but your belief also means people other than you are capable of being first."

"Well -" Hermione begins, then trails off. Her silence is more eloquent than Cicero.

"I know the two students who you are trying to catch up to," Flitwick says so softly that Neville has to strain to hear him. "They come from precisely the sort of unique situation I spoke of earlier. Consider, Ms. Granger, that they have both worked hard for years. Why, then, would you genuinely expect to catch up in a few simple days of cramming? Would some Hufflepuff or Gryffindor be able to outdo you on a test after only a couple hours of frantic study? You, who studies at least three hours a day even after her homework is done?"

"Well, of course not," Hermione answers, flustered by the unexpected compliments.

"Then you have your answer. Moderate your studies, Ms. Granger. If you continue at your current pace, you will crash, and ruin any chance of catching up you may have for the entire year."

"I . . ." Hermione's voice is much softer now. "Yes, of course Professor. You're right."

Harry, sensing the end of the conversation, signals to Neville. The two boys quietly back away from the door and tiptoe down the corridor, past the suits of armor, until they turn into another hall.

"That was weird," Neville mutters as they quickly strode towards the common room.

"Mm-hmm," Harry answers absently, slowing his pace.

"I knew she was a little off, but not completely daft," Neville goes on, slowing his own walk to compensate.

"I suppose," Harry agrees, staring off into space sadly.

Neville narrows his eyes. "I'm going to marry Pansy Parkinson and have a million kids."

"Great," Harry answers morosely, staring at the ground.

Neville slugs him.

"Ow!" Harry yelps, grabbing his shoulder. "You bloody wanker, what was that for?"

"You're moping," Neville informs him.

Harry shrugs uncomfortably. "I feel bad for her," he admits. "She obviously never had any friends – just look at how she behaves. All she had were her grades, and now we've gone and taken that away too."

"Don't tell me she actually got to you," Neville says wearily. "We didn't take anything from her. She still has perfect grades; Merlin knows she's learning these spells faster than you and I did. She's just never had to be second to anybody in her life and doesn't know how to deal with it."

"You don't believe that," Harry pleasantly returns, idly kicking the wall as they meander down the hall. "You still feel a little guilty, even though you didn't do anything wrong."

Neville scowls. "Don't act like Grandad Albus."

"Don't act like Grandad Gellert. Also, I'm right."

"You wouldn't know right if it punched you in the gonads."

"At least I knew it from my left before I was five."

Neville puts his brother in a headlock and the two playfully scuffle down the hall for a minute, only separating when Snape strides past them with an icy glare. The two control their breathing and nod at him as he passes as though they hadn't just been skirting the edge of rulebreaking. Snape only sneers at them, clearly knowing what the boys had been up to, but just as clearly not attempting to punish them.

Harry leans against the wall, out of breath from his exertions. "All I'm saying," he huffs, "is that we should talk to Grandad Albus about it. I'm not any more interested in holding back during class than you are, but maybe he'll know something to do about it."

Similarly exhausted, Neville sighs and sits down against the opposite wall. "All right, fine," he gives in, dropping his head to his knees and closing his eyes. "But if he says drop it, we drop it."

"That's fine," Harry answers cheerfully. "I think that-"

A shockingly loud rattle cuts him off. Both boys look sharply down the corridor as a suit of armor crashes to the floor, revealing three shapes bolting away. One of the figures glances back, and a startled Harry recognizes Pansy Parkinson.

"Hey!" Harry yells after their classmates. "What do you think you're doing?"

Neville tenses as one of the fleeing outlines pulls out a wand. "_Wingardium Leviosa!" _the boy screams at the top of his lungs, sending pieces of the armor flying down the hall at his pursuers.

Harry snaps his wand out. "_Protego_," he murmurs, creating a silvery shield that stops the armor fragments in midflight. The shimmering wall is flimsy, disappearing entirely after encountering the projectiles, but it does its job. Next to him, Neville casts an equally quiet spell that launches what looks like an enormous spiderweb down the hall at their three opponents. Tangled in the sticky strands, the students trip over each other and fall to the ground in an immobile pile of arms and legs. Harry swiftly disarms the trio while Neville slowly walks in a circle around them, making sure they were in fact their yearmates.

"So," Neville says, his casual tone belied by his predatory circling, "want to explain why you were spying on us?"

The Slytherins glare at him with hot resentment, but remain silent. Harry notices one of them – Millicent Bulstrode, he thinks – looks more frightened than angry. He leans down until he is inches from the girl's face.

"We would have left you alone if you hadn't attacked us, you know," Harry informs her pleasantly, studying Bulstrode's face closely. "Seriously, why even do that?"

The large girl cuts her eyes away, her face screwing up in what is clearly an effort not to cry. She does a good job of it; her expression smooths out after a moment, though she still refuses to meet Harry's eyes. The boy next to her looks up at the pair with a sneer almost worthy of Snape; however it is not quite enough to hide the slightly vacant expression in his eyes. The second girl bites her lip and alternates between looking down at the floor and up at Neville.

Harry steps around his brother to stand in front of her. "Parkinson, isn't it?" he says to her almost kindly. "Look, I get that you probably didn't mean to hurt anyone. If you had really wanted to, you would have come to attack us instead of running away. We just need to know that you're not going to do this again."

Pansy is visibly shaking. "I . . .," she begins, her voice tremulous, "you're just so good at everything, both of you. I . . . we just wanted to see how you did it, that was all." She dares to look up to meet Neville's eyes, her expression frightened yet bold. "Please, I'm . . . we're sorry. We just got scared when the armor fell, and then you were yelling at us, so we ran, and then _Goyle_," she spits the word, "decided to start casting spells at you. We didn't mean anything by it, honestly."

Neville sighs and buries his face in his hands. "Okay, fine," he mutters, his voice muffled by his palms. He scrubs at his face in agitatedly before dropping his hands back to his sides. "You were startled, you didn't think, you did something stupid. Happens to everybody. Just think next-"

"Don't bother, Neville," Harry interrupts, watching Pansy closely. "She's lying." His tone, rather than being flat or angry, is instead sad, and slightly regretful. He kneels down in front of Pansy, whose face has frozen into an expression of half-suppressed denial. "She took a minute to come up with a reasonable story, decided to appeal to our egos, and focused on you – even though I was the one in front of her – because she felt you would be an easier target." Harry's eyes glaze over and he scratches his chin in thought. "You know, technically I suppose she was right-"

Neville cuffs the kneeling boy on the back of head. "Get off it," he shoots at Harry, then raises his wand to the Slytherins. "Well, so much for optimism-"

"It was Draco!" Millicent wails from the other side of the pile.

Neville hesitates, then drops his wand. "What do you mean?" he demands brusquely, striding over to stare Millicent in the eyes. "The truth, this time."

"Draco . . . hates you two," she says quietly, but without looking away. "I . . . I don't know why, he didn't say. He told the three of us to follow you, to find out your schedule and anything else we could."

"Bulstrode!" Pansy hisses. "What are you-"

"Quiet," Harry tells her. She glares at him, but falls silent. Next to her, Goyle gives no indication of even being aware a conversation is going on. Neville's web is slowly melting, but none of the three make an effort to escape.

Neville regards Millicent skeptically. "Draco told you to, so you did it? Just like that?"

She laughs at him then, but the sound is full of bitterness rather than mirth. "I don't know what things are like in Ravenclaw, Longbottom," she returns, "but in Slytherin, when a Malfoy gives an order, you obey. Otherwise, things start to happen. Unfortunate things." Now she does look away, her voice angry but her expression defeated.

Harry purses his lips. "Tell me more," he says from the other side of the pile, his voice at once guarded and curious.

She shoots him a look of perfect distrust. "We aren't friends, Potter. If you really want to talk, can we maybe get out of this web first? Believe me, none of us are stupid enough to try anything after that stunt you two pulled." She looks off thoughtfully. "Actually, maybe you should leave Goyle as he is."

Neville and Harry share a look before Neville shrugs resignedly and raises his wand. "_Evan-_"

"Potter! Longbottom!"

Neville freezes for a moment before slowly turning around to look into the thunderous face of Professor Snape.

"You will release my students immediately," he hisses, pointedly ignoring the fact that Neville was in the process of doing exactly that. As Neville mutters the counter-spell, Snape's customary sneer glides into a twisted excuse for a smile. It is not a pretty transition. "You three," Snape says, in what could almost pass for a gentle tone, "go straight to the Hospital Wing." His tone grows increasingly predatory as he turns to Harry. "We want to make sure your attackers didn't hurt you."

"They attacked us!" Harry yells at Snape, his face red with frustration. "We didn't do anything!"

Snape gazes down his nose at the boy. "I'm sure. Mr. Potter, despite your," he glances at the Slytherins and lowers his voice slightly, "_privileged_ position here, there are certain standards of conduct at Hogwarts which you are required to adhere to."

As the Slytherins brush by Harry, two of them smirk hugely at him. Millicent Bulstrode refuses to meet his eyes. In surprise, he looks directly at her for a moment. This is a mistake.

"Potter!" Snape snaps barely an inch away from Harry's ear, causing the boy to jump in fright. "You will attend to the matter at hand." Snape backs away, looking at the two boys with no small amount of triumph. "Detention. Both of you. Now." He turns on his heel and strides down the hallway. "Can you not comprehend basic English?" he snaps when they both just stand still and gape at him. "Five points from Ravenclaw for stupidity. Each. Come with me."

Neville glances at Harry as they struggle to keep pace with Snape, but the other boy does not return his gaze. Harry's lips are clamped tightly together, his wand hand is twitching, and his narrowed eyes are trained on the back of Snape's head. Clearly unsure of how to calm his brother down, Neville settles for putting a hesitant hand on the boy's shoulder. Harry angrily shrugs him off, but lets go of his wand.

The Potions classroom is dank and frigid. Snape lights the room with a flick of his wand, then points to two large piles of cauldrons on the center table. "Longbottom," he commands in clipped tones as he strides into the classroom, "clean the right pile. Potter, clean the left."

Harry stares at the man incredulously. The piles are roughly the same size, but the ones on the right have only been lightly used. The cauldrons assigned to Harry are all thickly encrusted with filth. As he hesitantly picks one up, his fingers through the crust and something cold and wet and slippery oozes over his fingers, sparking a shudder of revulsion. He glances to Neville, who shrugs in apology and goes to work on his own collection.

"Do not imagine yourselves the wronged party here," Snape intones laconically from the teacher's desk at the head of the classroom. "Unlike those children, I know exactly who you are. I do not for a moment believe they were a legitimate threat to you."

Harry shifts uncomfortably at that fact while scrubbing the filth off a cauldron at arm's length. He glances to Neville, but his brother shows no reaction. Snape's eyes shift from his potion to each of the boys in turn while he ruminates on his next remark.

"What magic could they possibly have used against you?" Snape continues almost lazily as he idly returns his attention to his potion. "A Jelly-Legs Jinx? _Wingardium Leviosa?_" He trails off briefly as he adds a complicated series of ingredients to his cauldron. "You responded with – at the very least – a Spinner's Web. While that spell is not terribly difficult, perhaps third-year, it is not taught at Hogwarts for good reason." Snape falls silent while he reaches into the cupboard for more ingredients.

Harry's fingers are beginning to ache from his endless scouring. Next to him, Neville's pile is steadily decreasing, but Harry has barely put a dent in his own. After an eternity, his current cauldron is clean. He sighs, puts it aside, and picks up another. Aside from his consistent scrubbing, Neville gives no sign of even being aware of his location.

"There is a concept in Light magic that you may be familiar with; that of reciprocal force," Snape begins, and Harry suppresses a groan. "If an opponent attacks you with a Tickling Hex, Light wizards," he stresses the phrase, "do not respond with _Avada Kedavra_." He gazes at them in silence, his face unmoving. "Similarly, when in a scuffle with children who have had two days of magical instruction, responding with offensive spells that are banned from the Hogwarts curriculum is not how Light wizards behave."

Harry slams his cauldron on the table, sending bits of unidentifiable crud in every direction. "We aren't Dark!" he yells at the smirking Professor.

"Five points from Ravenclaw for disrespect, Potter," Snape responds smoothly. His gaze flicks to Neville for a moment, but the boy gives no indication he has heard. "As I said, you are not the wronged party here. This is the larger world, not your grandfather's house. You are nothing special here. Think about that."

Harry is furiously scrubbing at his cauldrons now, his face red and his eyes glassy. He controls his breathing, but only barely manages to restrain an occasional sob. Neville still mindlessly slaves away at his cleaning, refusing to respond to any stimulus beyond his assigned work. He is almost finished by the next time Snape speaks up.

"Did you imagine your grandfather would be proud?" the potions master asks casually as he inspects a blue-white concoction for impurities in the light. "Proud, when you told him how you violated one of the major premises of the magic he has dedicated his life to defending? You have violated Hogwarts rules, you have assaulted children, but most of all, you have betrayed the Headmaster."

Harry drops his cauldron, appalled at Snape's words. He looks to Neville as the boy sets his final cauldron down, sighs quietly, and trudges over to Harry's table. Neville's facial expression does not change.

"Dismissed, Longbottom," Snape says curtly as soon as Neville reaches for a cauldron from Harry's table.

Neville grunts in surprise and looks at the Professor, eyes wide. He looks back and forth several times between the foreboding Snape and the emotionally unstable Harry before sighing again. "Thank you, professor," he says quietly, ignoring Harry's betrayed gaze as he gathers his things and slips out the door.

Snape says nothing for the rest of the detention. Harry is left to work in silence broken only by the occasional sniffle. As time passes, his sniffles diminish and are replaced by an expression of quiet fury. Harry does not direct his angry gaze at the cauldrons, or even at the professor. He directs it at the door.

Snape idly dismisses Harry when he finishes his pile of cauldrons. His hands red and shaking, Harry picks up his things and leaves with a tight-lipped nod to the potions master. His eyes wander in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower; his face twitches as though preparing for a imminent confrontation with his brother.

When he sees Neville waiting on him just outside the classroom he drops his books in astonishment.

Neville scrambles to his feet as the thud echoes through the deserted hallway. "Hey," he says, more morose than what is typical for him, but at least recognizably Neville. "Let's go to bed already, I'm exhausted."

"Do you enjoy my classroom so much you are unable to leave, Mr. Potter?" Snape asks, coming up behind Harry. His eyes narrow as Neville comes into his field of view. "Well," he mutters, examining Neville with a razor-sharp glare, "Mr. Longbottom. Out of bed after hours, I see. Ten points from Ravenclaw, and be glad that is all. I do not wish to spend my entire life with you in detention."

Harry scrambles out of the doorway as Snape slams it shut. He gazes at Neville steadily until his brother grows irritated.

"What?" Neville demands, shifting his books from one arm to the other.

Harry shakes his head. "Nothing," he mutters darkly as he starts off for the common room.

Neville lets Harry stew for a couple of minutes before risking anything. "Look," he finally says as they go up their third staircase, "it's just Snape. He's an idiot. Nothing he says matters anyway."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Neville hesitates just enough to betray uncertainty. "Don't be stupid."

Harry mutters something under his breath.

"What was that?"

Harry turns on a dime and violently shoves his brother into the wall "I said _you left me! _He was being a git and he was saying all those things and he gave me all that work and you just left me there!"

Neville stares at his normally cheerful brother openmouthed for a moment before words start to come to him. "What else was I supposed to do?" he yells back, properly angry now. "He was trying to get a rise out of us. If I'd decided to stay in there he'd just have made things worse for both of us!"

"I don't care!" Harry steps forward and shouts in his brother's face, not listening as the cacophony of their fight fills the quiescent floor. "Which is more important to you, impressing Snape or helping me? We are supposed to be family, and you. Left. Me."

Neville shoves him back. "I did the best thing I could for you, arsehole!" he exclaims, waving his arms in the air out of frustration. "He was just looking for an excuse to make things worse, and you kept giving them to him!"

"You really think that matters?" Harry quiets down some, but is no less angry for that. "You remember what Grandad Gellert said. We don't leave each other, ever, for any reason."

Neville sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "We shower separately, don't we? He was talking about in battles, you git, or in strange places. He was not talking about detention. Even if he had been, I stayed right outside the door!"

"Fat lot of good you did against Snape from out there. If you'd been the one alone in there with all that crap to clean and Snape being a git, you'd be bloody brassed off, you would."

Neville hesitates again. "Snape's not the enemy, he's a teacher. We don't fight teachers," he finally insists.

"Snape's not the enemy? After what he's just done? Now who's being stupid?" Harry mocks. "I wouldn't have left you, and you know it."

"And we'd bloody well be there 'til morning, wouldn't we?"

Harry sighs in exasperation and rubs his forehead. "Forget it. Let's just go to bed."

"Fine."

Neither of them speak for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I'm concerned that Harry seems too needy and Snape too wishy-washy in this chapter. In truth, the story was getting along there in words and it was time to start establishing differences and relationships. It's not that Harry is needier or weaker than Neville, per se, so much as he experiences his emotions in the moment, where Neville locks his away for later. Both approaches have their advantages and disadvantages, as we'll see down the line. Snape dislikes the two just as much as he does in canon, but won't give them shit unless he's certain he can get away with it. He can't just be a blatant bully here; this leads him to be both more subtle and more cruel. I'll try to upload the next chapter two weeks from today.

**PS**: Does anyone know how reliable the word count system here is? I ask because after I wrote the above note, the site increased the word count of this chapter by five hundred, which is clearly ludicrous.


	5. DADA

Disclaimer: I in no way own any part of Harry Potter. I am making no profit off this.

Breakfast the next morning is a dreary affair. The boys sit at opposite ends of the table, separated for the first time that the rest of the school has seen. Speculation and rumors about the reason for the split run rampant for the first few minutes, before the attention deficit disorder-ridden hive mind that is the Hogwarts gossip chain takes dim notice of Hermione Granger's absence from the Great Hall.

"She's probably still in the library, snapping at people and working herself to death," Neville hears a third-year girl sitting three seats down say. "Really, what a freak."

"I heard she confessed her love to Professor Flitwick and he turned her down," the boy across the table from her puts in eagerly.

The girl rolls her eyes at the inexperience of youth. "As if. The only thing Granger could ever love is a textbook."

Neville tunes them out as he sneaks a glance down the Ravenclaw table at Harry. His brother eats methodically, speaking to no one, casually looking everywhere in the hall except for the section where Neville sits. Neville frowns at him impotently.

"Good riddance, I hope she stays gone," mutters a girl across from Neville, breaking into his thoughts. After a moment he manages to identify her and her gossip partner, Mandy Brocklehurst. "She's always so creepy, coming into the room in the middle of the night, not talking to anyone except to pry into their business . . ."

Neville purses his lips before jumping into the trap-laden conversation. "Hermione's had a rough year," he offers mildly. "I don't think she means anything by it."

Lisa looks at him as though he is a bug on her lettuce. "This is only the third day."

Neville shrugs unconcernedly. "A rough transition, then. She's used to always being ahead of the class, and suddenly she's dumped in this bizarre place where she's the only one who doesn't know the rules. Granted, she's reacting badly, but I think we can cut her some slack."

Mandy Brocklehurst narrows her eyes at him. "Are you a muggleborn yourself?" Her tone is overly friendly, suspiciously so. "No, wait . . . you're Longbottom, right?" She purses her lips at Neville's nod. "So you wouldn't be, then. What makes you think Granger's so great? There's plenty of other muggleborns around, but they mind their own business just fine."

"I didn't say she was great," Neville defends, "just that I don't think she means to be an annoyance. I'm certainly not saying she's been acting this way because she's muggleborn. She just feels lost, and gaining information is the only way she knows how to deal with that."

"What do you think of them, then?" Lisa returns, her eyes suddenly gleaming with unwelcome curiosity.

"Of who?" Neville asks in confusion. He sneaks another glance at Harry, but his brother still refuses to look his way.

"Muggleborns, of course."

Neville furrows his brow as he puzzles out a way to avoid the hidden snare he senses in her words. "What about them, specifically? I don't have a problem with them, if that's what you're asking."

The two girls look at each other and laugh. "And I thought you were supposed to be smart," Lisa pronounces nastily.

Neville glares at her. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

The girls share another amused look. "Muggleborns, Longbottom. Not just Granger, but all of them. They cause problems."

Neville watches at the two warily. "Like what?"

"Like stealing our money, Longbottom," Lisa reveals contemptuously. "The Galleon is gold – real gold, not like muggle paper currency, which is only theoretically linked to assets. Wizard money is worth much, much more than muggle. Hogwarts isn't cheap to begin with, and since the muggle currency is so weak, most muggle families could never afford to send someone here." Her tone is steady and reasonable, but her eyes are narrowed and resentful. The contrast is distinctly unattractive. "So the Ministry taxes us instead. My dad has to give up ten percent of his income each month so Granger," she spits the word, "can go to school here."

Neville blinks. "So your primary objection to muggleborns is the economic drain their attendance at Hogwarts causes on purebloods?"

"There's more," Mandy adds before Lisa can get a word in. "There's a strong line of evidence to show muggleborns are the major cause of the decay of wizarding culture."

Neville looks at her strangely, considering a gambit of his own. "How are you defining that?"

She looks down her nose at him. "What do you mean?"

"When you say decay of the wizarding culture, what traits are you defining as decay, and how are they objectively bad?" Neville asks pleasantly.

The girls shoot him disgusted glances. "What do you think?" Lisa demands in withering tones. "We're wizards. We want to do things in wizard ways. They're muggles – don't give me that look, essentially they are and you know it. They want to do things like muggles do. But we aren't muggles. We aren't going to all go around with walking sticks just because a few wizards happen to be blind, and we shouldn't have to go around acting like muggles because some wizards refuse to be more than that."

"I see," Neville murmurs in a tone that indicates he does not see at all. "So you two, Granger's roommates, were never going to like her no matter what, then."

Lisa huffs at him. "Don't be stupid. We're not bigots, we don't hate people because of their bloodlines. We just don't think anyone should get special treatment because of it, including muggleborns."

"Right," says Neville, tossing his napkin over his plate and looking off in a manner that shows the conversation is over. "Interesting." Lisa makes a face at him and the girls switch topics as Neville again tries and fails to catch his brother's eye.

Harry, for his part, is too busy observing the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy has suddenly sprouted a spectacular beak. The boy tries to charm it off but throws his wand down in disgust when he realizes he is unable to speak. A quick glance at the Gryffindor table shows Harry that, predictably, the Weasley brothers were behind this latest prank. All three of them make exaggerated wing motions at Draco with their arms. Percy, as usual, refuses to acknowledge his brothers' existence.

Snape strides down the center of the room and swiftly charms Draco back to normal with a spell Harry is unable to hear despite his best efforts. The Potions professor silences the giggling Hufflepuff table with a foreboding gaze while Draco looks calculatingly at the Weasleys. When Snape moves off in the direction of the Gryffindors, Draco grabs the professor's arm and whispers something to him. Snape begins to shake his head in the negative, but stops himself, and after a moment gives Draco a crisp nod. Harry furrows his brow in thought at what Draco's sudden grin portends.

"So," says Marietta Edgecombe from Harry's left, shocking the boy out of his thoughts, "what's with you and Longbottom, then?"

Harry glances at her in irritation. "What are you on about?"

She sighs at the idiocy of men. "You know, you two are always going about together, thick as thieves. Now you're down here and he's over there, quick as quick. You two have a row over a girl or something?"

Harry looks at her with distaste. "It's private."

"I knew it! I knew that was it, I told Cho so."

Harry tunes the girl out as a casually confident Draco makes a stop by the Gryffindor table on his way out. He has a short exchange with Ron, inaudible over the noise in the Great Hall, before smirking at the Weasley twins as he smoothly walks out. The twins pounce on Ron as soon as Draco is gone, but Ron's lips are firmly pressed together and he shakes his head at them. The conversation grows more heated, as the twins prod him, tease him, and generally seem to try annoying him into answering them, but Ron firmly refuses and quickly leaves the table.

Breakfast is ending, so Harry quickly gathers his things and morosely heads off to Potions. There are several seats still open in the class, but he walks in and sits next to Neville without hesitation. Neville watches him out of the corner of his eye.

"What?" Harry finally demands, turning to face his brother.

Neville just shakes his head. "Nothing. Didn't think you wanted to sit with me."

"Like I said, I won't leave you."

"Even in-" Neville begins, then trails off as his lips purse in thought.

Harry stares at him for a moment before sighing in frustration and facing the front of the class as Snape slams the classroom door.

Snape, bemusingly, ignores the boys all period. He does not make an effort to help them, but he also makes no attempt to humiliate them. Harry and Neville both watch him so closely that they almost brew their potion too quickly. When Harry elbows Neville in the ribs and tells him in low tones to slow down before Snape gets ideas, Neville scowls at him but does not argue.

"What's his issue, anyway?" Neville mutters, his eyes trained on Snape now that the boys have avoided standing out too much. "It seems like if he's a git, then he should be a git. But he's not being a git."

"To us," Harry adds quietly as Snape deducts five points from Hufflepuff for Justin Finch-Fletchey's mismanagement of ingredients.

Neville throws a wary glance at his brother. "Maybe," he hazards, testing their currently strained relationship.

Harry does not respond, and Neville suppresses a sigh. "I'm sick of being mad at you," he admits quietly while he adds mugwort at the proper time. "I still don't think you were right, but we're being childish."

"Hmm," Harry says noncommittally, indicating to Neville that their temporary truce in front of Snape is just that: temporary.

Neville bites his lip and turns his attention back to the potion. At the head of the class, Snape doesn't seem to take notice of the split between the boys. The other Ravenclaw boys to Neville's left, however, are constantly sneaking inquisitive glances at the two of them. When Neville turns to glare at them, Michael Corner jumps in surprise and knocks his cauldron over. Terry Boot is there to catch it and prevent a catastrophe, but Corner reddens at Neville's open smirk.

While Harry monitors the potion, Neville quickly glances over the room, muttering under his breath as he makes note of who is staring at them (all the Ravenclaw boys) and who is not (most of the Hufflepuff girls). He quietly gives thanks to Merlin for the fact that Hermione Granger has not yet accosted the two of them. Neville risks a quick glance back at her seat, trying to determine at what time doom may approach them.

He immediately turns back to Harry. "Where's Granger?"

Harry glances back and tilts his head slightly at the sight of Hermione's empty chair. "I don't know. She wasn't at breakfast either, Padma Patil would _not_ shut up about it."

Neville studies him closely. "Interesting."

"What's interesting?" Harry demands, annoyed with his brother.

"Granger is not in class, which is completely against her nature. You didn't notice this, which is completely against your nature." Neville's jaw drops slightly as he makes a connection. "Wait. Is this whole," he gestures awkwardly between the two of them, "thing bothering you that badly?"

"Don't be stupid," Harry tells him coldly. "I'm not one of those fake Seers on the wireless, I don't notice everything all the time."

"Trelawney," Neville coughs into his hand.

Harry rolls his eyes at his brother. "Whatever, it's – oh, bollocks."

Neville hisses in displeasure as he quickly shuts off the heat to their forgotten potion. They are too late; the damage is done. Their once light blue potion has boiled over into an ugly green color. The excess froth fizzes and steams as it flows down the side of the cauldron to the tabletop where it rapidly turns into sludge.

"Um – _Evanesco_," Harry says quietly, pointing his wand at the cauldron. When the spell fails, he grabs a towel and physically cleans the excess material before turning to Neville in chagrin. "Well, now what?" he asks dismally.

Neville gives the green sludge an experimental poke with his wand, quickly retreating when it wobbles. "Ah. Well. We can fix this, I think." Snape, Neville notices with irritation, has entirely stopped pretending to pace about the room and is watching them from two tables over with a tight, nasty smile. He gives Neville an ironic nod when he sees the boy watching him. Neville forces his eyes back to his table.

"I've got the mugwort," Harry murmurs in his brother's ear, dumping a precise amount back into the potion as he turns the heat up with his wand.

"Wait, not quite that much," Neville mutters, scanning the table. "Use about two thirds of that. Eye of newt will be better for thermal stabilization." He grabs an excess eye and quickly slices it up before dumping it into the potion. As the potion heats up again and begins to display its telltale froth, the eye of newt dissolves completely, returning the concoction to a murky blue.

Harry regards it skeptically. "I wouldn't drink it."

"Me either," Neville admits, "but at least it's better than most other people's." Snape's smirk, Neville notices triumphantly, has been replaced by a scowl.

A quick glance around the room assures Harry that their potion is indeed above average. Most of the Hufflepuff's potions are various shades of putrid green, and Ernie Macmillan has somehow managed to produce fog. The potions of the other Ravenclaws, however, are all a perfect, crisp azure color. Terry Boot spots their potion and openly smirks. Neville's face contorts in anger, and only Harry's quick theft of the the cauldron prevents him from hurling its contents at the other boys. "Can't be doing that, grading time," Harry mutters in Neville's ear.

Neville angrily bats him away, seemingly still testy after their squabble. Harry shrugs and turns his eyes to Snape as the professor makes his way down the aisles.

"Dreadful, Dreadful, Dreadful," the professor says quickly as he strides down the aisles, barely sparing a glance for the green monstrosities that comprise most of the potions. Ernie Macmillian, Harry notes, receives a Troll, but Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot both manage Acceptable.

Finally, Snape picks up their potion. "Acceptable," he bites off, slamming it down on the table as Neville and Harry stare at him openmouthed. He stalks off to the other Ravenclaw students.

Neville sighs as Snape lifts the first of the perfect potions. "Here goes our perfect record against them."

Harry looks at him suspiciously. "Have you been spending time with Granger? We've never cared about that before."

"I don't care about it for its own sake. I just don't want those three smirking at us every time we see them. Which, by the way, is all the time."

"Troll." Snape's tone is crisp, yet terribly bored.

Michael Corner boggles at him. "Sir?"

Snape glares at him. "You heard me, Mr. Corner. This is the worst work I have ever seen from a Ravenclaw. I expect better in the future." He goes on to give Dreadfuls and Trolls to all the remaining students before striding to the front of the room and dismissing the class.

All five Ravenclaw boys are looking incredulously from Harry and Neville's murky potions to the three perfect ones on the tables next to theirs.

"R – ridiculous," Neville stutters. "We screwed up, he had us right where he wanted us. Why'd he let us go?" Despite how sore things still are between the boys, he looks to Harry for an answer.

Harry furrows his brow at Snape, watching sharply for any odd body language, tells, or facial twitches. He finds none. "I . . . I don't know." Harry does not, however, miss the death glare Anthony Goldstein directs at the two of them. "I think we better go," he murmurs, and Neville is quick to agree.

Professor Quirrell proves to be a stuttering mess of a Defence teacher. He actually drops his wand when the boys walk into the classroom, and keeps such a distance from them that Neville seriously tries to remember if he showered that morning.

"Hey," he hisses to Harry while Quirrell stutters on about doxies at the head of the class, "do I stink?"

"Absolutely," Harry responds immediately.

Neville flinches. "Really?"

"All the time. A regular garbage pail, you are."

Neville resists the urge to punch his brother. "Git. I'm being serious here. Quirrell's scared witless, do you think Grandad said something to him?" He is vaguely aware of Quirrell rolling out a large curtain in a sealed glass box.

The glazed expression slides out of Harry's eyes as he critically examines the man. "Maybe. It would have to have been Grandad Gellert, though. Grandad Albus wouldn't have scared him like that."

Neville nods. "Sounds likely. Wait, what is he doing-"

The classroom explodes into pandemonium as Quirrell clumsily knocks his showcase doxy colony to the floor, shattering the glass. The air is immediately full of the buzzing creatures, swarming through the aisles. Quirrell screams and hides beneath his desk, sticking at arm out to feel around on the desktop for his cans of Doxycide.

Harry and Neville are out of their seats and back to back before either has time to remember they are still supposed to be mad at each other. "_Protego_," Harry intones, surrounding the two with a paper thin, wavering shield. "I'll keep this up, but I'm not very good at it yet," he warns Neville as the miniscule winged creatures swarm all around them.

"Right," Neville mutters. "_F__lamma culinam,_" he says softly, creating a gout of bluebell flames at the tip of his wand. He experimentally pushes the flames out through the shield, which ripples but holds firm.

"Verbal casting? What are you, eight?" Harry teases. His tone is light, but sweat runs down his brow as he casts and recasts the Shield Charm.

"I can faff around trying to cast it silently, or I can just say the bloody words and get it right on the first try. If you want I can try it wandless too," Neville offers.

"_Protego_. No, I'd prefer you get the spell right sometime this millenium."

"And you've had to recast the Shield Charm how many times already?" Neville returns with some heat, but both boys are grinning madly at each other.

The doxies recognize the threat of the flames after several of their number are scorched, and veer away from the shield, biting the other first-years as they go. Neville's use of the bluebell flames rapidly catches on, but most students just wave their flames wildly in the air, as likely to scorch each other as they are the doxies.

"No good!" Neville yells to his brother over the shrieks and buzz of wings. "They can just avoid this, and single-target spells would be useless against this many."

"_Protego. _What in the bloody hell is Quirrell doing?" Harry hisses back.

Neville risks a glance at the professor's desk. "Apparently . . . nothing."

"Seriously?"

"Well, nothing helpful. He's hiding under his desk." Neville bites off a swear. "This isn't working. Even if we take turns keeping up the shield, we can't do this all period."

"How about _Incendio_?" Harry suggests. His tone is light and reasonable, but carries an undercurrent of suppressed strain.

Neville assesses his brother's condition. "How about Fiendfyre, as long as we're talking about spells that we can't actually cast." He claps a hand on Harry's shoulder, and the boys switch roles in perfect synchronization, with Neville now maintaining the shield and Harry focusing on burning doxies.

"I didn't think doxies were supposed to be this aggressive," Harry mutters under his breath.

"_Protego. _You'd be brassed off too if somebody destroyed your home and started shooting fire at you."

Harry flinches as another student takes a particularly vicious, if miniscule bite. "Aren't they poisonous?"

"Uh – I think you're right. We should probably hurry."

"You could drive them off with your terrific stink," Harry suggests from Neville's back.

Neville snorts and pushes his back more tightly against Harry, who returns the gesture in kind. _"Protego. _These things live in curtains even worse than my grandmother's. It'll take more than missing a single shower – which I didn't, by the way – to drive them off."

Harry laughs wildly as the tiny creatures beat on their flimsy shield. "Like that time Grandad Gellert ordered a quarter ton of dragon dung-"

"-and had it shipped to the house instead of his office by mistake!" they finish together. Harry can't see his brother's grin, but he can clearly hear it in Neville's tone. "I couldn't sleep for a week," Harry admits.

"_Protego_. Neither could Grandad Albus." Neville furrows his brow in thought. "I have an idea, but I have to drop the shield to do it."

"You must be joking." Harry's tone indicates he's not at all sure his brother is teasing him. "Neville!" he protests a second later as the other boy lets the shield charm fail and dissolve. Harry sweeps the bluebell flames around in a wide circle, trying to cover as much space as possible. Several of the doxies fall to the floor in flames, shrieking horribly. The main swarm pulls back, buzzing in fear and anger.

Neville points his wand at Quirrell's desk. "_Accio doxycide_!"

Nothing happens.

"Brilliant," Harry breathes sarcastically, twisting every which way with the flames in an attempt to avoid the throng. "You were saying something about spells we can actually cast?"

"Shut up," Neville grumbles as he barely manages to avoid a flailing Susan Bones. "_Accio doxycide_!"

The metal cans rocket from the top of Quirrell's desk to strike Neville solidly in the stomach. He doubles over in pain, but flashes his brother a thumbs up.

Careful to keep his flames high, Harry reaches down and grabs a can of doxycide. "Right then," he mutters, spraying it at the creatures. Neville straightens up and joins him with the other can, spraying the doxies attacking the other students. Horrid screams fill the air as the swarm quickly retreats back into the curtains.

Harry affectionately cuffs his brother on the back of the head as a shaking, stuttering Quirrell emerges from beneath his desk. "Not bad," Harry compliments.

Neville rubs the back of his head and scowls at his brother, ignoring the professor's pathetic attempts to bring the classroom back under control. Any response Neville might have made, however, is cut off as his brother abruptly envelops him in a hug.

"Uh, Har," Neville mutters uncomfortably into Harry's ear, "back off a bit on the hugs in front of the whole class, alright?"

"Hugs require four arms," Harry responds. Neville cannot see his face, but Harry's tone more than adequately carries his goofy grin.

Neville sighs in resignation before embracing his excessively emotional brother wholeheartedly. Fortunately for his image, no one seems to notice, and Neville feels himself relax for the first time since their fight.

Quirrell finally manages to regain control of the classroom and orders the entire class off to the hospital wing, but Harry shows no sign of letting go. "I'm sick of being mad at you too," he confesses. "I _hate_ it when we fight."

"All right, all right," Neville mutters, embarassed. People are starting to notice the two boys embracing in the middle of the room. Neville squirms uncomfortably in his brother's arms, but doesn't let go himself. "We're fine, so let's go. Neither of us got bit, so I think we can skip the hospital wing.

Harry finally lets go of Neville. "Alright, fine," he grins. "I have the feeling something interesting is gonna happen at lunch anyway."

As it turns out, he is correct. Less than five minutes after the pair sit down to eat, a neatly folded note materializes under Harry's plate. He pulls it out by the exposed corner and looks over it avidly before turning to his curious brother.

"Grandad Gellert wants to see us after we're done eating," Harry tells him in a low tone, keeping an eye on the rest of the Ravenclaw table. If anyone notices, they give no sign.

Neville grins at him brightly. "Brilliant. Maybe he'll-"

"So what's that, then?" comes a curious voice from Harry's right. Reflexively whipping the parchment out of sight, he turns to find himself faced with an Hermione Granger.

"Granger!" he croaks, automatically plastering an awkward smile across his face. Like plaster, it is brittle. "What are you doing here?"

Hermione looks at him derisively. "Eating lunch, Potter, what does it look like?" She nods towards the parchment in Harry's hand as he belatedly folds it up. "What's the note, then?" she demands brusquely.

"Harry forgot his schedule, so he has to carry a copy of it around," Neville confides in her from Harry's other side.

Harry shoots his brother an affronted look. "I did not!"

"He's really embarrassed about it," Neville continues, "so don't tell anyone, okay?" His words are accompanied by a surreptitious kick under the table at Harry's leg.

"Is that all?" Hermione's face is genuinely crestfallen as Harry reluctantly nods and shoots his brother a dirty look. "Well, whatever," she huffs dismissively as she turns her attention back to her lunch.

"Where were you this morning, anyway?" Harry asks.

"Oh, Professor Flitwick told me to take the morning off," Hermione responds carelessly, pausing in mid-chew to respond. "He said he'd straighten it out with my professors, and that he'd dock points and give me detention if he heard I left the tower before lunch." She turns to them abruptly, an avid gleam in her eye. "You will let me see your notes though, won't you?"

Harry represses a flinch at her hungry expression. "Sure," he lies. "It's just as well you were gone anyway, the whole rest of the class is in the Hospital Wing. Don't worry," he rushes to reassure her, "it's nothing serious. Quirrell let some doxies get loose, is all."

"Oh." Hermione's surprise is delicate, almost smothered by her flat tones of total disinterest. "I suppose the table is rather empty," she murmurs as she casts an impersonal eye around at the vacant seats where the first-years would normally sit. "I suppose you two escaped, then," she grouses wearily, returning to her lunch.

"We were near the door," Neville responds promptly, as though triggered. "We managed to slip out before the doxies cut off the pathway."

Hermione looks at him askance. "No you didn't," she states, her tone thick with skepticism. "You used advanced spells. What did you use, then? The Shield Charm? It would be the obvious choice."

"On that note, we really have to go," Neville says brightly, yanking Harry almost out of his seat before the boy can give them away with his inability to hide his emotions. "Neither of us have done much flying, and we need to get some practice in before class."

"Ahh, flying." For the first time, Hermione is completely uninterested in a subject at Hogwarts. "See you in class, then."

The boys make a mad dash for the Headmaster's office as soon as the doors of the Great Hall swing shut behind them. After a cursory glance in each direction, Harry excitedly whispers the password to the lower room into the gargoyle and dashes down the stairs into the secret chamber, only stopping when the room proves to be empty.

Neville grins openly at the old family game. Pulling out his wand, he wordlessly levitates a paperweight from the desk and sends it shakily flying around the room. As it finishes its second wobbly circuit with no incident, he frowns and lowers it back to the desk. He loses control of the spell at the end and the lead disk free-falls the last six inches to the desk, landing with a solid thud that makes him wince.

Harry steps into the room as Neville steps out. "_Serica Cavea,_" Harry mutters, firing off Spinner's Webs one after the other into the room. The first two splatter uselessly against the walls and floor, but the last one disintegrates even as it flies out of Harry's wand.

"There!" both boys yell triumphantly, pointing in the direction of Harry's last web.

"Not quite," Gellert Grindelwald chuckles in Neville's ear, causing the boy to jump as his grandfather seems to materialize out of thin air right next to him.

Neville looks up at him suspiciously. "You were there the whole time?"

"I was," Gellert confirms. His amusement is both teasing and comforting. "Why did you not find me?"

"My paperweight should have," Neville muses, looking from the table to Gellert and back with narrowed eyes. "I sent it right through the space where you were standing."

"Are you certain?" Gellert asks with a gleam in his eye. "The evidence seems to indicate otherwise, so I suggest you try it again. Nonverbally," he interrupts when Neville starts to speak the spell.

Neville shrugs and levitates the paperweight again. As he watches, Gellert takes out his own wand, occassionally moving it in subtle, precise movements. He otherwise remains completely still.

"Oh! I know!" Harry jumps in. "You're moving the disk yourself!"

Neville slaps his forehead. "Of course," he groans to his grandfather's wide grin. "Because I cast the spell nonverbally, I didn't have as much control over it as normal. When you pushed it where you wanted, I didn't notice, or if I did, I thought it was my own fault. If I'd cast it verbally I probably would have found you."

"Perhaps," Gellert muses as he hugs both boys. "I don't know that it would have been that easy, but at the very least I would have been unable to use that particular tactic," he agrees as he sits in the cushy chair behind the desk.

"Then why'd you destroy Harry's web?" Neville inquires as the boys clamber onto stools across the desk from their grandfather. "No, wait," he murmurs, shooting the man a calcuating look. "It was to misdirect us, wasn't it?"

"It was primarily an attempt to prevent Harry from destroying any more of your grandfather's office," Gellert smirks at the boys, "but I will admit misdirection was also a motivation, yes. This sort of thing is exactly why we do not use offensive spells during these exercises."

"Ah," Harry starts, looking about the web-covered office as though seeing the damage he had done for the first time. "Um, whoops?" The honest embarrassment in his voice does not quite cover the miniscule thread of impishness.

"No matter," Gellert forgives him easily, "you will simply clean it up before you leave."

"But Grandad, I can't cast Evanesco yet!"

"Then you'll just have to do it manually. Look upon it as a learning opportunity."

"Speaking of which," Neville cuts in, "do you know when our lessons with Master Flamel will start?"

"Yes," Gellert says with an impish smile to match Harry's.

The boys watch him with anticipation.

Gellert continues smiling at them.

Neville heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Grandfather, when will our lessons with Nicholas Flamel begin?"

"On Monday," Gellert responds immediately. "Come here after flying lessons and we will take a Portkey to Master Flamel's residence." He raises an eyebrow at Neville's continued look of irritation. "What? Your initial question was not specific. It's hardly my fault if you refuse to structure your statements appropriately."

Harry groans. "Stop, you sound like Snape." Next to him, Neville bites his lip and stares hard at the floor upon hearing Snape's name.

"I'll be sure to get a full medical checkup immediately," Gellert jokingly assures his boys as he stands up. "Now, I believe you two have flying lessons to get to, yes?"

Harry lags behind, waiting for Neville to hug their grandfather and slip out the door before turning to Gellert. "Something happened," he admits to his grandfather, who only raises an eyebrow in response. Harry quickly gives him a rundown of the previous night's activities, finishing with the boys making up in Defence that morning.

"I see," Gellert murmurs, steepling his fingers as he leans against the oak desk. "It seems that you have three primary concerns, then. First, that you responded with too much force. Second, that there is something intrinsically wrong with you, and third, that you have somehow betrayed your grandfather and me through those first two concerns. Is that an adequate summary?"

"I was really mad at Neville too," Harry admits in a lachrymose tone while he viciously toes the floor. "I'm not anymore, but I still wish he'd stayed."

"An understandable desire," Gellert agrees as he gently pulls Harry against his side. "Realize, though, that he thought he was helping you. While I am not saying his decision was the correct one, his heart was in the right place. Tell me," he says, raising Harry's chin until the boy has to meet his eyes, "how did you feel when Neville first turned and walked out the door?"

"Mad," Harry mumbles. He tries to pull his head away, but Gellert's grip is too firm.

"Anger is a need to correct a wrong. It always has a source emotion. What was the source of your anger?"

Now Harry does look away. "I . . . I felt betrayed," he admits. His tone is clouded with old pain, delicately laced with shame.

Gellert strokes the boy's hair until he begins to relax. "And did that feeling strike any chords within you? Are you in any way sensitive to the betrayal of a family member?"

Harry briefly thrashes in agitation, though he doesn't let go of Gellert. "I thought he was just like the Dursleys," he says bitterly. "They were supposed to be my family and care about me, but they didn't. I thought he was doing the same thing." He falls silent for a moment as he buries his face in his grandfather's chest. "But he's not. Neville's not anything like that, I just . . . I'm sorry I've been such a git."

"You've done nothing to me that needs an apology, and it seems as though you and Neville have already forgiven each other," Gellert says softly. "There is certainly nothing wrong with you, and believe me when I say you could not betray your grandfather or myself if you tried. As for the Spinner's Web, Neville cast that, not you. From what you've said, I believe he was justified, though the fact that he decided not to mention it gives me cause for concern about how well he's handling this."

"So it's . . . okay?" Harry says hopefully.

Gellert nods. "You refused to harm anyone when you easily could have, you followed the rules even when they were being used against you, and you came to me when you were upset. It's not your fault that Professor Snape was unfair, but sometimes life is simply like that. You certainly have nothing to be ashamed of. Now, as I recall," he continues, casting a Tempus spell without bothering to take out his wand, "it is time for you to get going, yes?"

"I still have to clean up the office, though."

"Oh I forgot about that," Gellert says with a strange, wicked grin which he quickly suppresses. He idly waves a hand at the webs, which vanish cleanly. "Go on, then," he dismisses the boy casually, as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.

"No way," Harry breathes. "You didn't even look at them! How did you even _do_ that?"

Gellert laughs delightedly. "It's the result of some research I've recently conducted. My control over it is not good yet; I wasn't sure it would work," he admits. "It was a very dramatic note to send you off on though, wasn't it? I promise I'll teach you and Neville all about it when you know enough magical theory to understand it," he says quickly before Harry can start begging to learn it. "Off with you now, for real this time."

Harry runs into Neville and Hermione on his way out of the castle. "Flying's been canceled," Neville informs his brother with a smug grin. "Everyone else is still in the Hospital Wing, and Hooch decided it would be a waste of time teaching only three people when she'll have to go over everything again next class anyway."

Harry smirks at Neville as he falls into step beside his brother. "Stop being so pleased."

Neville looks at Harry incredulously. "I just learned I don't have to get on a matchstick and go hurtling into the sky at two hundred kilometers an hour. I will be as pleased as I want to be."

"I'm glad someone around here has sense," Hermione sniffs. "Honestly, wizards have absolutely no brains, flying on broomsticks. Who even thought of that?"

"Millicent Bulstrode," Harry murmurs thoughtfully as the trio passes a hallway.

Hermione blinks. "What?"

"She's in that hallway," Harry responds absently, coming to a halt. "With Draco Malfoy. She looks like she's crying."

Neville looks at him sharply, immediately understanding the implications. "Let's go," he mutters, quickly but silently walking down the corridor after the two Slytherins.

"Is this really so important we have to do it right now?" Hermione demands.

Neville looks at her. "If you don't want to go, why are you following us?"

"Because you two only do the really interesting things when I'm not around," she huffs at him. "If I'm around all the time, I'll get to see it and learn the spells you're using."

"If you want," Harry says cheerily. He ignores Neville's glare.

While the first corridor is empty, the second hallway they follow Malfoy into is unfortunately full of fourth-years. It is only by luck that Harry spots Millicent slipping into an unused classroom. The three of them fight their way through the crowd and steal into the room moments later. Millicent is sitting at a desk, her head resting on her folded arms.

"Bulstrode," Harry says gently, gingerly stepping towards her. "We-"

"What do you want, Potter," Millicent responds flatly.

"We saw you and Malfoy in the hallway," Harry continues. "We wanted to be sure he wasn't . . . hurting you."

She does look at him then, and laughs harshly. "So what if he was? What, exactly, do you think you could do about it?"

"You should tell your head of house," Hermione told her, either ignoring or not noticing Harry and Neville's warning gestures. "It's their job to stop things like that."

"You're an idiot."

The look of complete bewilderment on Hermione's face indicates that is a phrase that has never before been spoken to her. "What-"

"You want me," Millicent overrides her, "to complain to Severus Snape about Draco Malfoy? Seriously?" She snorts and puts her head back down. "Just . . . go back to your tower, little Ravenclaws. The rest of us have things to do."

"What exactly are you going to do sitting in a desk with your head down?" Neville asks bluntly. "We can help you-"

"You've helped me quite enough, Longbottom," Millicent spits, lifting her head just enough to be heard clearly. "The best way you can _help _me now is by going away."

Harry catches his brother's eye and nods his head back towards the door, grabbing a still shocked Hermione as the boys exit.

"Well," Neville comments pleasantly, "that went well."

"Oh, we have Astronomy tonight!" Hermione bursts out, earning bewildered looks from both of the boys. "I haven't gotten my telescope ready or anything!" Without another word, she hurries off down the hall, the previous incident completely forgotten.

Harry looks after her and shakes his head. "One-track mind."

Neville can only nod in agreement.

Astronomy turns out to be chilly and windy. Harry still manages to pay close attention, even if he flinches when they observe the star Sirius. Neville's comforting presence is next to Harry, though, and Hermione is at least a likeable enough distraction, particularly after she corrects his work several times. He shakes off the anger and regret that feel like millions of prehensile insects angrily buzzing just beneath his skin and focuses on the heavens.

The three are wearily trudging back to Ravenclaw tower when Neville grabs the other two and ducks behind a filthy suit of armor.

"Snape," Neville whispers, harshly repressing a sneeze.

It is all the other two need to hear. Sure enough, Snape strides by moments later before taking a left down another corridor and disappearing. Neville's urge to sneeze mercifully relents.

"What's he up to?" Harry breathes suspiciously. He squirms out of their pile and grabs his brother. "Let's go."

Neville's incredulity is flat and hard. "You cannot be serious."

Hermione pulls him in tandem with Harry, breaking Neville's rigid stance. "Come on, then, no sense being lazy."

"What in Merlin's name are you on about?" Neville mutters, wiping the thick dust off his robes. "You're the first one in line for following rules."

"Yes, well," Hermione responds with a surprisingly small amount of doubt in her voice, "if you two were following the rules, you wouldn't need to cast all those spells, now would you?"

"You only want me for my spellwork!" Harry laments dramatically.

"Oh shush," Neville grouses. "If we're doing this, let's go before he gets too far away. And for the love of Merlin, keep quiet."

The three of them quietly creep through the deserted castle for some time, staying far enough behind Snape not to be noticed, but close enough to not lose sight of him.

"Quirrell?" Harry wonders out loud as Snape slips into the Defence professor's office. "What's Snape want with him?"

Neville frowns. "Maybe they're plotting something together?"

"No way," Harry immediately responds. "Can you really imagine Snape having the patience to plan and execute a plot with someone like Quirrell? For that matter, can you imagine Quirrell having the competence to actually pull something off?"

Neville acknowledges the point with a nod as he crosses to the front of the door, listening.

"I can't hear them," he admits when he returns. "They must have charmed the door – all I can hear is some weird buzzing sound."

"I guess we'll wait then," Harry sighs, plopping down on the floor around the corner from Quirrell's office.

"This is boring," Hermione observes.

"You chose to come along," Neville reminds her. "We didn't drag you here."

She makes no response. Time interminably drags on, and only the greatest effort of will prevents Neville from constantly checking his watch. Across from him, Harry is not quite so resolute.

"Forty-five minutes," he groans, softly thudding his head against the wall with frustration. "What is Snape even here for?"

"Companionship," Hermione says with equanimity.

All sounds seem to come to a sudden halt as Neville slowly, reluctantly turns his gaze to her. "W . . .what?" he asks weakly.

"Well, people have needs," Hermione intones primly but reasonably. "They are two men locked up in a castle together; neither of them can leave, and neither of them is married or has a girlfriend. In such a situation, is it really so hard to believe that-"

"Stop stop stop stop _stop_," Harry moans as he slams over his ears entirely too late. "Hermione Granger, you have the most disgusting imagination of anyone I know, and I've met the Weasley twins."

"I'm only saying that-"

"No no no no no. Really," Neville groans, "we get it. We do. Believe me, I wish we didn't." He shakes his head like a dog throwing off water after a bath. "Maybe I can hear more if I get closer to the door." Before either of them can stop him, he crosses the hallway and cautiously places his ear against the door. Just as Neville touches the wood, he jerks back in sudden fright as an earsplitting klaxon resonates down the corridor.

"Bloody hell, they set an alarm," Harry hisses as he scrambles to his feet. "Run!"

No sooner have the three tumbled around the corner than they hear the sharp crack of a doorknob slamming against a wall as someone tears Quirrell's door open.

"Spies, Quirinus!" Snape's voice stabs through the echoing alarm. "Take the left!"

"They're following us!" Hermione wails dismally as Harry and Neville yank her one way, then the other through the stone halls.

"You think?" Neville returns, gasping harshly for breath as he sprints away from Snape's ever-louder footsteps. "Long-legged bastard, he'll catch us before the next hall," he growls, pulling out his wand and flicking it lightly.

Snape vaults out of the shadows into the archway, wand in hand, just in time to meet Neville's surprise. Only a quick nonverbal Shield Charm saves him from being knocked to the floor by a levitated suit of armor.

"Oh come on," Hermione complains when they round the corner, "that's all?"

"He's a teacher," Harry gasps at her. "He'd make mincemeat out of us in a fight, and if we use any unusual spells he'll know it's us."

"Not to mention he'd tell the headmaster, and then we'd be in a whole mess of trouble," Neville pants, stumbling and narrowly avoiding a headlong crash into a suit of armor.

"Well, still," Hermione wheezes, "I feel like if I'm going to come along on this fiasco, I should get to see something interesting out of it."

Neville spares her a look. "Do _you_ want to fight him?"

Harry grabs Neville's robes from behind suddenly enough to choke his brother. "This way," he hisses into Neville's ear. "We'll take the passage behind the portrait of Marilyn the Egregious."

Harry tears open the door behind the portrait, bodily hurls Neville in when he proves a second slower than Hermione, and slams the door behind them. It is pitch dark in the tunnel, and Harry can feel the grit of ages when he touches the cold walls.

"Quiet," Neville unnecessarily whispers, "Snape is coming."

All three hold their breath as the rapid, heavy footsteps grow louder and louder. Harry tenses as they approach the portrait, but the runner continues past the three and out of the hallway without slowing.

"Let's go," Neville mutters as he clambers to his feet. He steps on Harry in the pitch dark and the other boy shoves him off with a muttered oath.

"Sorry," Neville grunts as he feels his way along the squalid, uneven stone wall. "I can't see a bloody thing."

"_Lumos_."

Harry and Neville look at each other dumbly in the new light, then at Hermione's smirking face as she holds her softly glowing wand high.

"Or we could just do that," Harry says cheerfully.

"Well don't just stand there, let's go," Hermione remarks crisply as she brushes past the two boys. "Professor Snape may remember this passage if he comes back through."

Their progress through the tunnel is slow and difficult. Hermione's wand only produces a small amount of light, and the tunnel itself is narrow, dank, and jagged, with surprise turns at every step. After a wearyingly long journey involving two bumped noses, four hurt knees and a possible sprained wrist, Harry finally spots the sliver of light that marks their escape.

"Here," he grunts as Hermione extinguishes her light, "push." The door soon gives way to their combined strength and grinds open with a protesting screech.

"All right, then," a shaky voice yells from within the next hallway, "finally come, have you? Coward!"

Neville squints when he recognizes the figure in the dimly lit corridor. "Weasley?"

Ron stills. "Not Malfoy? Who are you, then? Out with it!" he demands, snapping his wand up into a dueling position.

"It's us," Harry announces as the three of them stumble into the light of the corridor. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"Well . . .," Ron stalls, "I . . . I could ask the same of you!"

"We're running from Snape," Neville informs him pleasantly. "Seen him?"

Ron shudders. "I should hope not, the greasy git. Did Malfoy send him?"

"No," Harry tells him confidently. "Why would Malfoy send him here?"

Ron drops his wand. "He challenged me to a wizard's duel at midnight," the redhead admits with chagrin, "but the wanker didn't show up."

"You really expected him to?" Neville inquires dryly.

"You're not terribly bright, are you?" Hermione asks, watching him curiously.

The boy turns red. "I-"

His response is cut off by a high, animalistic yowl from the end of the corridor, echoing in the intersection to create a terrific racket. The four scramble for cover, hiding behind various suits of armor and portrait frames, but the cacophony only gets louder.

"Ms. Norris," Neville hisses, identifying the small form at the exist. "Bloody hell, Filch'll be here any second!"

Harry yanks out his wand and stabs it in the direction of the noise. "_Silencio!" _The sound abruptly cuts off, but it is too late.

"They'll be this way, Professor Snape!" Argus Filch's triumphant voice cuts cleanly through the air. "Ol' Ms. Norris found 'em, she did!"

"Be swift, Filch!" Snape's voice is clipped and terrible, barely carrying over the rush of footsteps in their direction.

Ron yanks Harry up from his prone position and the four dash madly down the halls away from their pursuers. "Filch!" the redhead spits. "I'll just bet Malfoy sent him out after me." Behind the two, Hermione and Neville levitate a large tapestry to envelop their hunters. " Look out! Here-" the two boys barely skirt around a fallen statue.

"There's a spell for this, it makes the floor slippery," Harry tells Ron, ducking down a side hall. "Point your wand at the floor behind you when you cast it. The incantation is _Arvina_."

The two boys simultaneously take out their wands. "_Arvina!" _Ron yells as they both cast the spell. The stones where their wands are pointed take on a slick sheen, as if they are coated in oil. Ron grins brightly at his friend, not even out of breath. "Brilliant!"

"Not incredibly brilliant, you almost stranded Hermione and me," Neville pants at him. "For Merlin's sake, slow down. Are you a cheetah or something?" Muffled sounds of protest and struggle erupt from behind them as someone encounters the tapestry trap.

"What's Snape doing out, then?" Ron demands of Harry. "He's not on patrol tonight, I checked."

"Don't know," Harry huffs at him, still not fully recovered from his previous exertions. "He met up with Quirrell for awhile, but we couldn't find out anything."

"Quirrell?" Ron's face contorts. "Why him?"

"Companion-"

"Shut up, Granger," Neville moans. "Here, this way." He skids to a halt, almost knocking over a marble statue, before hitting three specific stones on the wall. A small section of the wall slides open, revealing a dark, square passageway. He leaps into it headfirst, grabbing a startled Hermione and pulling her in after him. Ron follows swiftly, then turns around and bodily snatches the slower Harry into the chamber just before the door slams shut.

"Hope they didn't hear that," the redhead says cheerfully from the floor as Harry rolls off of him.

Harry slumps down against the wall tiredly. "You people are absolutely exhausting," he complains.

Neville snorts. "Following Snape was your idea to begin with."

"Yeah, but I didn't know it was going to be work."

Neville sighs. "This tunnel should come out reasonably close to our common room. Weasley, you'll have to find your own way back to your common room from there."

Ron grins widely and slaps him on the back. "We just silenced Ms. Norris, gave Filch the slip and wrapped Snape up in a thousand-year old tapestry, Neville. Anybody who does that with me can bloody well call me Ron."

Neville laughs tiredly. "Fine. Ron, then. Can you find your own way back?"

"From the Ravenclaw tower? Sure."

The journey back is mercifully short on Harry's aching legs. They leave Ron at the tunnel exit and Hermione at their silent common room. The boys enter the first-year room to find their three roommates irritatingly still awake, sitting on Terry Boot's bed and staring at the two with wide eyes.

Harry groans and viciously yanks the curtains on his bed shut, blocking out their inquisitive gazes. Sleep is dark and dreamless.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I've had a hell of a couple of weeks. Look for the next chapter in two more, but it'll be substantially shorter than this one.


	6. Flamel

Disclaimer: I in no way own any part of Harry Potter. I am making no profit off this.

Harry nudges Neville at breakfast the next morning. "Check out Snape."

Neville glances out of the corner of his eye to see a remarkably angry Potions master glaring down the hall at the two boys. "So he knows it was us. Think he'll do anything?"

"Make our lives miserable, probably," Harry sighs, absently stirring his porridge. "If he was going to do anything official, he would have done it already."

"Maybe he's afraid we'll tell grandad about last night if he does anything," Neville muses.

"Why would he be afraid of your grandfather?" Ron asks innocently as he and Hermione slide into seats across from the brothers.

"Ron!" Harry half-shouts in surprise. "Nice to, ah, see you here. What brings you to the Ravenclaw table?"

"Really, Weasley, we have house tables for a reason," an upper-year Ravenclaw grunts from down the table.

"I'm a Gryffindor, I'll sit where I want," Ron responds cheerfully, the complete ingenuousness of his manner removing any sting the words may hold. The older boy rolls his eyes at him in response and returns to his meal.

"Actually though, he's right, Ron," Hermione says carelessly from next to him. "You should be sitting at your own table. There's no technical rule that says so, but it's just expected."

Ron regards her steadily. "I didn't know you disliked me so much."

Hermione's composure immediately evaporates. "I – well, I'm sorry, I didn't mean," she babbles, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"It's fine," Ron laughs easily as he pushes his plate away. "Hermione, calm down, I'm just ribbing you. I love unwritten rules, really."

Harry gazes at him suspiciously. "You do?"

"Sure," Ron grins back, "if it's unwritten, they can't really do anything to you for breaking it."

Hermione buries her head in her hands.

"So," Ron continues on obliviously, "you two were saying something about your grandad?"

Hermione snaps her head up out of her hands with frightening speed. "Your grandfather? As in, you two share a grandfather? So, you're related."

Neville bites back a curse. "Well," he begins. "Really, it's-"

"Well, yeah, they're brothers," Ron says, furrowing his brow as he watches Hermione with confusion. "You didn't know?"

"You _did _know?" Neville inquires cautiously after he and Harry share a worried glance.

Ron turns his bemused gaze on the other two boys. "Well, yeah," he says uncomprehendingly. "I didn't know you guys were hiding it."

"We aren't," Harry hastily assures him. "We just didn't recall mentioning it to you guys. Who told you about it?"

Ron shrugs. "No one had to. I have five brothers, Harry; after awhile you learn to recognize siblings when you see them. You guys act towards each other like Fred and George do, but you don't really look alike. You're not blood related, but you've been like twins for a long time, maybe always."

"Wait a second," Hermione murmurs, shooting Neville a venomous look. "You lied to me."

"What?" Neville looks at her in confusion. "No I didn't."

"Neville's a good bloke," Ron tells Hermione calmly, nodding at the boy. "Maybe you just misheard."

"I didn't!" she insisted. "You said that your grandmother taught you that transfiguration, but if you two are brothers, she would have taught Harry too."

Neville schools his face into a pleasant but neutral expression. "My genetic grandmother taught me, not my adoptive family."

Hermione blinked. "Oh."

"See?" Ron said good-naturedly. "Everything's fine."

She sighs at him hopelessly. "No, Ron, nothing here adds up."

He scrunches his nose at her. "It doesn't?"

"No." Hermione tosses her hair back before primly continuing. "There are at least two major inconsistencies between the facts and the story we've been fed."

Harry winces. "That's kind of a harsh way of putting things."

"True though," she returns immediately. "First, you knew the teachers when you got here. You told me that all non-muggleborns knew the teachers, but Ron is a pureblood, and he didn't."

"Ron is a Gryffindor," Neville reminds her, kicking Harry under the table until his brother's face loses its guilty expression. "Ron, correct me if I'm wrong here, but are grades really your biggest concern?"

Ron laughs like the idea is the funniest thing he's ever heard in his life. "Forget grades, mate, I'm here to have fun."

"You, on the other hand, are a Ravenclaw," Neville continues in the same eminently reasonable tone of voice. "If you had known about Hogwarts, you absolutely would have made a trip here and gotten to know all the professors beforehand."

Hermione tilts her head in thought. "Well . . . I suppose so. But what about the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery?"

"What about it?" Harry asks.

"Professor Flitwick told me that it's illegal to practice magic outside of Hogwarts before you're of age, but he also said you two had worked hard for years before coming here. Learning one transfiguration doesn't count as working hard for years. Why was your family so desperate for you to learn magic that they broke the law so severely?"

Neville flinches, completely unprepared for Hermione to strike so close to the truth. "It's . . . complicated."

"Hermione," Ron breaks in with a slight bit of anger in his tone, "maybe they don't want to talk to you about their personal family business?"

She blinks. "Well, I don't see what's so bad about it . . . but I suppose it is their business," she admits thoughtfully, averting her gaze.

Ron looks at her in disbelief. "You can memorize entire textbooks and pick holes in things people said to you over a week ago, but it doesn't occur to you that other people's lives might be private?"

"It's okay, guys," Harry swiftly speaks up before Hermione can finish her angry retort. "It's morning; Hermione probably just wasn't thinking about it; everything's fine."

Ron shrugs. "If you say so, mate."

Hermione seems content to let things lie for awhile after that, and the next several days rush past the boys with the cacophony of classes and homework and meals and gossip that is life at Hogwarts. The four of them awkwardly settle into a companionship, and it is time for the boys' first lesson with Nicholas Flamel before Neville quite realizes it. The pair rush down to the secret room, where Gellert is waiting with a portkey and a stern reprimand for tardiness. Harry protests that they are five seconds early, to which Gellert only responds, "To be early is to be on time." The jerk and whirl of the portkey stifles any further argument the boys may make.

The portkey deposits the three in a tastefully decorated, if small, living room. "Nicholas?" Gellert calls out, resting one hand on the shoulder of each boy. "We've arrived."

A tall figure leans in from an adjoining room, and Harry briefly goggles at how young Nicholas Flamel appears. The man's short brown hair is a neat crown on top of a face that looks no older than twenty. His eyes, however, speak of far more than twenty years of experience. They contain knowledge, and curiosity, and perhaps a tinge of something more.

"I'll tell Nicholas you've arrived, Master Grindelwald," the man says with a slight bow before disappearing back into the other room.

Neville blinks. "That wasn't him?"

"No," Gellert chuckles, "that was Michael, Master Flamel's assistant. I imagine he'd be pleased about the mistake, though."

The distinction between the two becomes clear as a middle-aged man sweeps into the room. He is clean-shaven, unusual for a wizard of his apparent age, and carries an air of quiet dignity that neither Gellert nor Albus quite manage. His black robes, while modest, are a rather closer fit than what is common, and bear innumerable, almost indistinguishable stains.

The man nods to Gellert before gazing down at the boys. "Hello, you two must be Harry and Neville. Which is which, then?" he muses briefly. "No!" he exclaims when Gellert opens his mouth to make introductions, "Do not tell me! I think that . . .," his hand briefly trails down to point at Harry, "you are Harry, and you," he twitches his finger to the other boy, "are Neville." The man raises his gaze to meet Gellert's, a quick, curious motion. "Am I correct?"

Gellert's face is twisted in some unnameable expression. "You are," he finally admits.

"Ha! I knew it!" the man crows in triumph. "Your grandfather here," he continues, talking to the boys now, "talks about you two all the time. He talks, and he talks, and he talks. I am old, and sometimes it feels like there is little left in the world to do, so I was curious if I could identify you on first sight. As it turns out, I could," he finishes proudly.

"Yes, well," Gellert coughs while discreetly glaring at the man, "as you have discerned, these are my boys, Neville and Harry. Boys, this is Master Nicholas Flamel." The two straighten perceptibly when Gellert introduces them as '_my_ boys', causing Gellert to hide a grin.

"Well then," Flamel murmurs as he ushers the three into a small but well-supplied laboratory, "I suppose I had better know what you are capable of before we begin. How advanced are you in potions?"

"Sixth year," Neville supplies immediately.

Flamel's eyebrows raise the slightest tinge. "Indeed?"

"They are capable of brewing potions on a sixth year level," Gellert clarifies quickly. "They do not know every potion on the Hogwarts curriculum; we have restricted ourselves to the most . . . directly useful for our purposes."

"We can do Polyjuice Potion," Harry grins at Flamel.

Gellert squeezes his grandson's arm gently. "Barely. Don't brag, it's unbecoming."

"So you are familiar with the uses of ingredients, but would not likely know how to brew . . . say, the Stain-Removing Potion," Flamel states.

"The what?" Harry asks incomprehendingly.

Flamel smiles tightly at him. "I thought as much. Very well, how advanced are you magically?"

"In most subjects, they're roughly equivalent to fourth year students," Gellert informs him. "They are still too young to be strong enough for spells beyond that point. However, they can both cast a rather weak Shield Charm, and a nonverbal Silencing Charm. If they are lucky, they can manage it wandlessly as well."

Flamel looks at the other man sharply. "Wandless? I see they benefited from the results of your research last year."

"Teaching them a wandless _Silencio_ was the original purpose for that research," Gellert corrects him. "It was something they needed to know before we let them loose in a school that also contained seventh-year Slytherins."

Flamel appears distinctly unimpressed. "I was a Slytherin myself, you know."

"That was a long time before Voldemort arose and placed much of the house firmly under his thumb," Gellert reminds him.

"I suppose," Flamel agrees sourly. "Very well." He turns to the boys. "In addition to whatever incidental gaps we may need to fill, then, you both have two years of full Hogwarts-style curriculum to cover. We will do this in one year, I should think."

Neville goggles at the ancient man. "R – really? Sixth AND seventh year potions in one year?"

"The reason for your advanced education is that you may at any time need to fight against the forces of Voldemort, is it not?" Flamel asks mildly. When the boys nod in response, he goes on. "Then, at least at this point, we may safely dispense with the potions that are unlikely to aid you in that endeavor. Your grandfathers were right not to teach you the Stain-Removing Potion, for instance. After that, we can begin work on your masteries."

"Masteries? I thought you had to have a NEWT in a subject before you could become an apprentice?" Harry asks in confusion.

"Ordinarily, you would be correct," Flamel answers. "But apprenticeships have a long historical tradition that predates even Hogwarts, and certainly predates such modern inventions as standardized tests. Any recognized master can accept anyone as an apprentice at any time of his choosing. The apprenticeship can be of any length, though too much shorter than three years is often looked upon with suspicion. Auror training was originally modeled after this; that is the reason it lasts for three years. Technically, all Aurors possess a mastery in law enforcement, but the title 'Auror' supersedes that of 'Master'. In the past, an apprentice would be tested for the title of master by the guild at the end of his apprenticeship. Nowadays, that position is filled by the Ministry. A NEWT in a subject is simply what most masters require as proof of ability in a given subject; there are no legal requirements whatsoever. Take my apprentice Michael as an example. He has only an OWL in Potions, but he worked for his uncle for some time and learned a good deal of alchemy as a result. When he came to me several months ago, I tested him and was satisfied with his level of ability."

"So . . . we could just complete a mastery and skip the Potions OWL and NEWT entirely?" Harry asks hopefully.

"I am afraid not," Flamel informs him. "In order to be legally recognized as a master, you must have at least an E on your NEWT for the subject. If you wanted to forgo the recognition, though, you could certainly just do the training. Michael will be taking the Potions NEWT in a private sitting some time before he finishes his apprenticeship."

"Moving on," Flamel continues, walking the two boys over to an oak lab table while Gellert quietly converses with Michael in a corner, "I would like you to brew a mild healing potion for me, using these ingredients." He swiftly pulls several small bottles out of an ancient cupboard and places them on the table in front of Neville.

"But there's no unicorn hair here," Harry protests.

Flamel raises an eyebrow. "I am aware of that."

"How are we supposed to do it, then?" Neville inquires suspiciously. "All formulas for healing injuries involve unicorn hair at one point or another."

"And what purpose does it serve in those brews?" Flamel asks pleasantly, facing them from the other side of the well-lit table.

"It's a purification agent," Neville immediately responds. "It prevents infection, removes any magical taints, and generally makes the wound ready to heal."

"And what on that table could substitute for that purpose?"

Harry leans into his brother, craning his neck for a better view of the bottles. "Nothing usable."

"Are you certain?"

"Well, there's wormwood oil," Neville says hesitantly, "but that's terribly poisonous."

"And I believe you have the antidote there, do you not?" He waited for the boys to confirm this before continuing. "Wormwood oil is a superb cleansing agent because of the simple fact that nothing can survive it. When used in a potion, then, you may rely upon the fact that the imbiber is much stronger than whatever germs may have entered through the wound. Even if some of his cells do die as a result, the human body has toxin disposal mechanisms that germs simply cannot duplicate. What is fatal for them will not be fatal for their host – at least if you do your job correctly. The antidote takes longer to take effect than the wormwood, allowing it to do its work, then clearing it out once it is no longer needed. Of course, pouring it directly on the wound is the best method for delivery in this case."

"It's a war of attrition," Harry murmurs.

"Not exactly, but close," Flamel agrees. "We are missing the last effect of the unicorn hair, though; wormwood will not prepare cells for growth. What available ingredient can you use to make the potion more lively?"

Neville scans the table. "Mint?" he offers.

"Exactly!" Flamel responds. "Mint is excellent for rejuvenation. So, a preparation of wormwood and mint can replace unicorn hair in a healing potion, when used with its antidote."

"But all of these ingredients are much easier to get than unicorn hair," Harry asks in confusion, "so why isn't this formula used?"

"What do you imagine would happen if you used too much wormwood and not enough antidote? Or if the patient was old and weak, or if for some reason their normal bodily toxin disposal functions were not working?" Flamel asks in return.

Neville catches on immediately. "They'd die," he realizes. "It's possible to substitute out difficult ingredients, but they are in the potion for a reason. This can be a very risky brew to make, and it would have to be tailored to each patient. On the other hand, you could eat an entire herd's worth of unicorn hair and have no ill effects at all."

"Very good points," Flamel agrees. "Also, how much wormwood are you going to use?"

"I . . . have no idea."

Flamel nods in satisfaction. "There is a certain amount of leeway you can use in quantities of materials, depending upon what you want the potion to do. The potion is a magical tool as well as a physical one. Just like how your wand can bypass the need for verbal incantations when your focus is strong enough, your potions can nudge their effects in one direction or the other depending upon how strongly you desire a given result. Make no mistake, this IS magic. If potions didn't use your own magic, every Squib in Britain would be employed as a brewer. A potion, after all, is something completely unique; it is magic and will frozen in time, stored for later use. The goal of a true brewer – or alchemist – is mastery of creation. The ingredients are ultimately no more than a crutch."

"If a potion is like a wand," Harry muses, "and wizards can sometimes focus strongly enough to bypass the use of a wand altogether . . . is it possible to bypass the use of potions ingredients altogether?"

Flamel favors him with a rare, genuine smile. "Superb. Yes it is, though the ability to do so is even more rare than wandless magic. The two are at about the same level of difficulty, but potion brewers are a methodical sort, and are not likely to need a potion immediately the way a wizard may not have time to get to his wand in a fight. It is extremely difficult to learn, and most brewers simply view it as a waste of time. Professor Snape, for instance, though a highly gifted brewer, has never taken the time to learn this skill." He regards the two boys for a moment before continuing. "I will be in the living room while you work. Come get me once you think you have a workable brew."

Gellert excuses himself from his conversation and follows Flamel back to the living room. Harry sees them earnestly talking for a moment before Gellert notices his grandson's line of sight and closes the door.

"I have what you asked for," Flamel informs Gellert once the door has shut. He reaches a hand into his deep pocket and pulls out two large vials, wrapped in felt and layered with protective enchantments. "It was not designed to produce this much originally, you know."

Gellert eyes the ancient alchemist. "Is it unhealthy? Are there side effects involved?"

"No," Flamel admits, steepling his fingers as he sits on the plush couch, "it is perfectly safe to use. It is simply . . . more difficult to procure."

Gellert lowers himself onto the thickly cushioned chair across from Flamel. "Then do we really have a choice?"

Flamel sighs and looks away. "Not much of one, it would seem." He glances at the other wizard. "Speaking of difficult to procure, I need more of the ingredients you brought me last time."

Gellert raises a mischievous eyebrow at the other man. "I thought a true master had no need of ingredients, Nicholas. Are you slipping in your old age?"

Flamel huffs at his smirking friend in amusement. "Impertinent child. I might remind you that when I was your age, I had already discovered the secret to eternal life."

"Are you going to tell me to get off your lawn now?"

Flamel gives the other man a mock-assessing look before answering. "I might be inclined to let you remain . . . if you bring me the substances I need."

Gellert laughs and waves a hand at his friend. "All right, all right, you win. I have to collect them myself, though, so it'll take some time. Lethifolds do not give up their blood easily."

Some minutes later, the boys excitedly announce they are finished with their potion. Flamel sweeps into the room, declares it surprisingly passable, and gives instructions on how to do better next time. He assigns them an amount of homework that almost makes Harry's eyes pop out, and moments later the three are deposited in Albus' downstairs office by return portkey. Gellert holds Neville back briefly while Harry leaves for the library to hunt down the texts Flamel assigned to them.

"I wanted to speak with you for a moment, Neville," Gellert says slowly as he marshals his thoughts. "It seems that something has been . . . bothering you lately, perhaps the last week or so." He does not miss how still his grandson has suddenly become. "I have no intention of forcing your confidence," Gellert quickly assures him, "but you have a way of shutting yourself away from the family and burying your emotions that is simply not healthy. I want you to know that if you want to talk about it, I am here." He leans against the desk, clasps his hands in front of him, and simply waits for Neville's response.

It is not swift in coming. After almost a full minute, Neville sighs, looks away from his grandfather, and gives him a summary of the events with Snape and the Slytherins. "You always said that Voldemort got carried away with his own power and misused it," he finishes, pacing agitatedly, "and that Harry and I would have to be better than that. We agreed. And then what do I do the very first time someone pushes me? I use that power against them. Snape was right; there's no way they could have done anything to us. Don't get me wrong, he's still a git – but in this case, he's a correct git."

Gellert reaches out and pulls Neville into a close hug. The boy struggles a bit at first, still too frustrated to want to accept the comfort, but soon clenches his fists in his grandfather's robes and releases his agitation with a deep sigh.

"Is that really how you view your actions?" Gellert asks quietly without releasing Neville. "As those that Voldemort might have committed at your age? Tell me, then: who was hurt?"

Neville's voice is muffled by his grandfather's chest. "Well, I . . .," he begins, then falls silent.

"Was anyone hurt? How many injuries were there?"

Neville sighs and buries his face more deeply in Gellert's robes. "None, but that was just luck. They could have gotten tangled up in the web and broken their bones when they fell."

Gellert raises a skeptical eyebrow at his grandson. "And you think a bit of luck would have allowed them to escape Voldemort unscathed?" When Neville does not respond, he goes on. "It seems like you feel that you were careless. Even if you were – I do not necessarily agree – there is a difference between being momentarily careless and actually intending to hurt someone. One is very nearly an accident, but the other is completely intentional. Evil is always completely intentional. In order for this to be a truly evil act, you would have had to intend to harm them with the Spinner's Web, and I simply do not believe that of you. Not only because you know many spells that would be guaranteed to injure them – the Web is, after all, as nonviolent as combat spells can get - but also because that is just not who you are as a person."

Neville mumbles something indistinguishable. When Gellert asks him to repeat himself, Neville twists his fists even more strongly into Gellert's robes and murmurs, "Whether or not the Slytherins got hurt, Harry did. I hurt him when I left him in there alone with Snape."

"And are you sorry you did so?"

Neville shifts his weight uncomfortably, but does not let go of Gellert. "I'm sorry he got hurt," he admits. "Snape was nastier to him to begin with though, and he would have just gotten worse if I had stayed. I don't get why Harry would have wanted me to stay."

Gellert gently rests a hand on Neville's head. "Did you consider that perhaps your presence was more important to Harry than Professor Snape's attitude?" When Neville goes completely still again and does not respond, he continues. "Regardless, sometimes we hurt those we love, even unintentionally. You thought you were helping him, and I believe Harry knows that. It is likely the reason the two of you made up as quickly as you did."

Neville sighs deeply and pulls away. "I was mad at him too," he admits, sitting on a stool in front of the desk. "I didn't understand why he was being so weak. But really, I was the weak one. Harry would have defied Snape all night long. I gave in at the slightest push."

"Strength and weakness do not come into it," Gellert disagrees. "The two of you simply had different reactions. Your reaction was to take the path that would resolve the situation most quickly, while Harry's was to stand his ground no matter what. Harry experienced and dealt with his emotions as they occurred, while you locked yours away for later. They are different methods; one is not necessarily superior to the other."

Neville sighs again, but it is a sigh of release, not agitation. "I guess so," he responds, his tone sounding lighter than it has in several days. "I need to get to the library anyway before Harry destroys the place."

"He can sometimes be a bit of a walking disaster zone," Gellert agrees. "Very well then, off with you, and think about what we discussed."

As he bolts up the stairs, Neville pulls up short and only barely manages to avoid running into Snape, who is standing in the hallway outside. Snape favors the boy with a dismissive sneer, but says nothing. As Neville slips by him, the potions master gives the password and walks up the stairs (which now lead to the correct office) to the Headmaster's office.

"Ahh, Severus!" Albus exclaims as the tall man quietly enters his office. "Thank you for coming by. How are you doing?"

"As well as could be expected," Snape replies succintly as he lowers himself into a chair across the desk from Albus. "I have news."

Albus swiftly tosses a privacy charm at his door. Snape raises an eyebrow at the display.

"Are wands too bothersome to use now?" he asks, his tone an odd mix of respect and sarcasm.

"Just staying in practice," Albus responds easily. "Please, continue."

"The Dark Lord is seeking out books on Alchemy," Snape informs him. "He is spending more and more time in a private potions laboratory which only he is allowed access to. He has also demanded that I bring him books from the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library."

"Indeed?" Albus sounds faintly surprised "What books might the library have that he cannot access himself?"

The spy purses his lips. "I do not know. The Dark Lord trusts no one, not even me. Instead of giving me a list of books to steal, he has demanded every text that has to do with alchemy. I suspect he has reason to believe that some of those books may be more than they seem."

"Hidden messages, then," Albus muses. "I can think of two or three books that may fit that bill."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "I rather suspect you know every book in the library with that property."

"Perhaps, but it is best not to push oneself too hard," Albus answers pleasantly. "Do you have any idea what Tom wants with alchemy?"

Snape drums his long fingers on the arm of the chair as he thinks. "He has made note, recently, of the fact that he is still aging. Whatever other steps he may have taken to prolong his life, they have not frozen him completely in time. He would view this as a weakness – he has mentioned it directly to no one, but it is gnawing at him badly enough that I can read between the lines. I believe he may seek to create the Philosopher's Stone."

Albus nods. "That would explain much. Has he sought any other avenues to power?"

"He has shown an intense curiosity in blood magic," Snape replies crisply. "He has been in contact with the vampires again, promising them freedom and power within his ranks in exchange for their singular knowledge of blood."

Albus narrows his eyes at this. "And have they responded?"

"Not as of yet. The problem with him seeking help from the vampires is that his current allies – the blood supremacists – are those who believe most strongly in the inferiority of magical creatures to wizards. He will have to offer them something exceptional in order to win their aid."

"Why do you think he would make such a gesture?" Albus asks thoughtfully. "This goes against every ideal he claims to hold. It may alienate many potential Death Eaters."

"I would not presume to think I know the Dark Lord's motives," Snape sneers. "That level of arrogance would drastically shorten my life expectancy."

"Still, surely you suspect something?" Albus inquires.

"Only the obvious," Snape bites off. "Blood magic is very old, very dark, and very powerful. All of those qualities would appeal to him. I have no idea why he has chosen now to pursue it, however."

Albus frowns as Gellert quietly enters. "Tom has always had specific motives for his actions in the past. He is an excellent strategist; is it possible he suspects you?"

Snape unconsciously grits his teeth as he cautiously considers the disturbing possibility. "I have seen nothing to support that," he finally forces out. "And he is not typically able to hide such things from me. If he is fooling me now, it is likely that he has been fooling me all along."

"Of course, of course," Albus reassures him. "It was not my intention to worry you, Severus. I apologize."

Snape's only recognition of the apology is a quick, sharp nod. "Still, it may be a feint. Even if he does not suspect me, he may suspect a spy in general, or he could simply wish to deceive everyone."

Gellert frowns at this as he makes himself comfortable in a chair next to Snape's. "When he was a student here, and later when I fought him, every spell he used was designed to impress. Voldemort is certainly a dangerously skilled strategist, but he understands power, not subtlety."

Snape curls his lip at this, but makes no other response. "He is also aware," the professor says at some length, "that Potter and Longbottom are at Hogwarts." Snape speaks the names with perfect control; if he feels any lingering animosity for the pair, it doesn't show.

"Unfortunate. I'll strengthen the wards immediately," Gellert immediately responds.

"There is no need to leap into action, Gellert," Albus disagrees mildly. "Tom, of course, knows how old the boys are. Of course he knew they were going to be here beginning this year. If we were going to make an attempt on them, it would have been at King's Cross Station. He cannot come to Hogwarts himself, and neither can most of his followers. The wards we have laid down to keep out unauthorized entry are strong and esoteric. While it is dangerous to underestimate Tom, I cannot imagine that he would be able to bring them down quickly enough for an assault without alerting either of us." Albus pauses as he eyes his partner closely. "Running around casting extra spells everywhere will not add to that protection, and may in fact diminish it."

Gellert sighs and rubs his forehead. "You're right, of course," he admits grudgingly. "I wasn't thinking. He can't come here himself, and any assault he might make with parents who are Death Eaters would be easily rebuffed."

"While he has mentioned the children once or twice," Snape continues, "he does not referred to them often, or with much intensity."

Albus strokes his beard in thought. "They are not his top priority, then."

"I believe so," Snape responds. "Make no mistake, he still intends to kill them, but there are currently other things he deems more important than the person prophesied to possibly defeat him. I find that worthy of concern." He studies the two older wizards before continuing. "He does desire something on the Hogwarts grounds."

Gellert tilts his head in thought. "Something other than the boys?"

"Yes," Snape intones decisively. "He speaks openly of them, but whatever he desires here is a secret. He alludes to it in riddles and jokes that only he understands."

"How does he intend to procure this item?" Albus asks thoughtfully. "Surely he cannot come here himself."

"Nevertheless, he is confident of acquiring it," Snape returns smoothly. "This indicates to me that he has an agent here, one who he has the utmost confidence in. Unfortunately, he will not reveal the name, or even the existence, of this operative even to me."

"Could it be Quirrell?" Gellert inquires sharply, leaning forward in his chair.

Snape scowls and steeples his fingers. "I do not believe so. I don't think Quirrell is working for You-Know-Who. Even if he were, he has never been competent, and this operative is someone the Dark Lord trusts – at least as much as he trusts anyone."

Albus drums his fingers on the Headmaster's desk in concern. "There is something in this school that he wants more badly than someone who may one day be able to defeat him. Has he given any indication of what it is, or what he may want it for."

Snape shakes his head sharply. "None. He has been very guarded about the subject. Any inquiries I made into it would no doubt be met with great suspicion."

The meeting breaks up quickly after that; each of the wizards has something of their own to focus on for the time being. As Snape stalks out the Headmaster's door, Gellert slips out behind him and closes the door.

"Severus, a word," he commands, all pretense at friendliness gone.

Snape pauses in mid-step. He remains utterly still for a moment, as if debating whether or not to heed Gellert, before turning around with an unreadable expression and sticking his hands in his other arm's sleeves. He says nothing.

"I understand that professors have a certain amount of leeway in the punishments they give," Gellert begins, locking Snape in place with a glare edged with razors. "I also understand that some teachers will invariably be more harsh than others. What I do not," he almost spits the word, "understand is why you tried to split my boys up and turn them on each other when we are all facing the return of Voldemort; when you know Albus and I have devoted our lives to keeping them close and strong. Harry and Neville didn't understand what you were really doing, of course – but I do." Gellert stalks down the stairs to stare Snape in the eyes only inches from the other man's face. "It makes me wonder, Severus, if I was not correct the first time in my judgment of your character."

Snape barely represses a sneer as his gaze clashes with Gellert's. "If you are quite finished, you may take note that the Headmaster," the dark man leans into the title, "has said nothing to me on the subject. I have treated Potter and Longbottom no differently than I would any other children. Perhaps that is the real reason you are so . . . disgruntled."

"Doesn't explain why you actively tried to psychologically harm them," Gellert says blandly, but the different set of his shoulders delicately speaks of danger. "Emotionally hurting someone can frequently be more effective than anything physical you might do; you have demonstrated your knowledge of this many times. I am a hair's breadth away from considering you a legitimate threat to them, Severus. I notice you aren't nearly so aggressive with me as you are with children," Gellert smiles suddenly. "Why is that?"

"You have not harmed anyone. Your children cannot say the same." Snape's voice is flat and close in the dank stairwell.

"_Nicht,_" Gellert responds, his anger briefly slipping him back into his native tongue. "That is not the reason, Severus. Do not lie to me again."

Snape's expression briefly reveals the depths of his calculation as he gives Gellert an assessing gaze. "I spy on the Dark Lord frequently," the potions master grimaces. "I am intelligent enough to watch my tongue with someone who can destroy me with a glance."

Gellert tilts his head, clearly not expecting this revelation, before narrowing his eyes again. "No," he says decisively, "don't appeal to my ego, Severus. You forget I want to Durmstrang, which is more manipulative than all of Slytherin combined." Gellert strides down the stairs, forcing the other man to give ground so he can pass. "I know the kind of person you really are, Death Eater," he says at the foot of the stairs without turning around. "Do not forget what happened to your master when I decided _he _was a threat."

Snape makes no response as Gellert walks off.

**A/N**: Originally, I had planned for one more major section in this chapter, but I found this to be a more satisfying ending, and this chapter has run over in length enough as-is (the three major sections here should only have been around 3600 words). Flamel in particular likes to drone on and on and on. This is perhaps just as well, because I'm not pleased with the quality of my writing in this chapter. Sometimes you have to cut your losses.

A few things I forgot to mention last week: _F__lamma culinam, Serica Cavea_, and _Arvina_ are, of course, incantations I completely made up. According to Google Translate, they mean kitchen flames, silken cage, and grease, respectively. Also, intrepid Stephen King fans may have noticed Ron's statement to Neville at the end of the last chapter as a veiled _Dolores Claiborne_ reference ("Anybody who's gonna accuse of me murdering my husband can go right ahead and call me Dolores!").

Finally, the next chapter will be in four weeks, not the regular two. I'm going to Arizona for two weeks, so I won't be able to write at all during that time.


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